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Marjorie Bowen

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I WILL MAINTAIN

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

• The Viper of Milan
• Defender of the Faith
• God and the King
• The Quest of Glory
• A Knight of Spain
• The Governor of England

I WILL MAINTAIN

BY
MARJORIE BOWEN
AUTHOR OF “THE VIPER OF MILAN”

“MOI JE SERA NASSAU, JE MAINTAINDRAI”
Motto of the House of Orange

NINTH EDITION

METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON

First Published

February 24th

1910

Second Edition

March

1910

Third Edition

April

1910

Fourth Edition

June

1910

Fifth Edition

February

1911

Sixth Edition

June

1911

Seventh Edition

January

1912

Eighth Edition

December

1912

Ninth Edition

September

1913

CONTENTS

CHAP.

PAGE

PART I

I.

THE IDEALS OF M. DE WITT

3

II.

THE INTRIGUERS

15

III.

MASTER AND PUPIL

25

IV.

M. DE WITT’S SECRETARY

41

V.

THE CHALLENGE

55

VI.

MIDDELBURG

66

VII.

THE MANIFESTO

79

VIII.

M. DE WITT AND HIS HIGHNESS

89

IX.

AMALIA OF SOLMS

103

X.

AT THE HOUSE OF M. LE MARQUIS DE POMPONNE

112

XI.

THE BALL IN THE BINNENHOF

122

XII.

THE SPY OF FRANCE

135 PART II

I.

THE RETURN OF FLORENT VAN MANDER

153

II.

AGNETA DE WITT

169

III.

SCHEVENINGEN

183

IV.

THE DEFEAT OF M. DE WITT

203

V.

THE DECLARATION OF WAR

216

VI.

THE CONSPIRATORS

230

VII.

THE POLICY OF M. DE WITT

247

VIII.

SOLEBAY

259

IX.

THE EMBASSY OF M. DE GROOT

283

X.

THE VICOMTE DE MONTBAS

298

XI.

IN TIME OF WAR

313

XII.

AFTER THE DEFEAT

330

XIII.

THE FANATICS

347 PART III

I.

THE CAMP OF THE CONQUEROR

361

II.

THE TEMPTERS

375

III.

THE ANSWER

389

IV.

THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE

404

V.

CORNELIUS DE WITT

417

VI.

THE RESTORATION

429

VII.

“I WILL MAINTAIN”

439

VIII.

THE STADTHOLDER

455

IX.

IN THE ASSEMBLY

466

X.

THE VICTOR VANQUISHED

474

XI.

THE FALLEN STATESMAN

482

XII.

AUGUST 20, 1672

499

XIII.

WILLIAM OF ORANGE

526

PART I
JOHN DE WITT, REPUBLICAN

“A man of unwearied industry, inflexible constancy, sound, clear, and deep understanding and untainted integrity; so that whenever he was blinded, it was by the passion that he had for that which he esteemed the good and interest of the State.”—Sir William Temple, Observations on the United Provinces, 1672.

CHAPTER I
THE IDEALS OF M. DE WITT

“There is one subject that we seldom touch upon,” said Sir William. “And that is one upon which I am curious to hear you speak.”

John de Witt looked up quickly.

“Ah, sir,” he smiled faintly. “You are of a probing disposition—what is this subject?”

“The Prince.”

“The Prince—” repeated M. de Witt, and an intent expression that might have been trouble came into his full brown eyes. “What is there to say of His Highness?” he added.

The English Ambassador laughed in the soft and pleasant way he had; he was standing by the long window, and, as he answered, glanced out at the wych elms and pale sunshine that filled the garden of M. de Witt.

“The situation is piquant—between good friends you must allow it——”

The Grand Pensionary rose.

“Between good friends, Sir William, the situation is dangerous. I am aware of it—but the Prince—the Prince is only a child.”

Sir William moved from the window with a little shiver.

“Your Dutch weather!” he said. “I think the damp has got into my very bones——”

“But you like the house?” asked de Witt “It hath a large garden for the children when they stay with me—and since it was not possible to remain where I was, I thought I could do no better.”

Sir William answered gently, aware of the allusion, veiled under commonplace words, to the late death of Wendela de Witt. It seemed to him, composed and close observer as he was, even of his friends, that the Grand Pensionary had changed more than a little since he had lost his wife.

“It is a noble mansion,” he said. “I could be selfish enough to wish this library at Sheen.”

He looked, with the approval of a fine taste, round the lofty apartment panelled in mellow-hued, carved wood, and lined with shelves filled with rare and costly volumes; a few handsome portraits hung above the bookcases, and over the high chimney-piece a rich but sombre picture of fruit and flowers showed; on the blue-tiled hearth were brass andirons, and on the table in the centre of the chamber candlesticks were set, also brass, but polished so that they shone like gold.

At a small desk by the far window sat a secretary in a dark dress, writing.

“The house hath been a palace,” continued Sir William.

“Therefore should not be the residence of a republican?” smiled John de Witt. “Nay,” he added simply, “the house is well enough, but I took it for the garden; and now you look on my one luxury—my books—for the rest the furnishings are simple—too simple for Cornelia’s taste, as she will tell you if you stay to dinner,—nay, I doubt not she tells my lady now.”

Sir William crossed to one of the bookcases, took a volume down and opened it at random. As John de Witt came up behind him, he spoke in a low tone, looking at the book.

“Who is the new secretary?”

The Grand Pensionary seemed slightly surprised.

“He?—a young man from Guelders.” He glanced to where the person in question sat absorbed in writing. “He was recommended to me by de Groot—he is diligent and silent—I like him.”

Sir William’s white fingers slowly turned the leaves of the volume he held.

“Then we may talk freely?”

“As always in my house.”

The Englishman glanced up. His face, which was of a dark, soft, luxurious style of indolent good looks, expressed a watchful yet friendly kind of amusement and interest; his air was slightly cynical, wholly pleasant, as if viewing follies that never tempted him to participate in them he yet found them harmless and tolerated them, good-humouredly.

“Well, then, of the Prince,” he said. “What are you going to do?”

John de Witt frowned.

“You think I am afraid of His Highness.”

Sir William answered with the ready courtesy that took all appearance of sincerity from his speech—

“All Europe knows that you are afraid of nothing—yet, for Holland’s sake, you might tremble a little now.”

The cloud did not lift from the Grand Pensionary’s noble face. He put out his hand and rested it on the edge of one of the bookshelves, and his delicate fingers tapped restlessly on the polished wood.

“Diplomacy as well as friendship dictates frankness to me,” he answered in his slow, stately, yet gentle way,—“nor is there much I could conceal from such an observer as yourself, Sir William. The Orange party have wearied me, have thwarted me, have alarmed me; I find them unreasonable, powerful and dangerous—I speak of the party, not of the Prince.”

“Why not of him?”

“I have no right. He has ever shown himself quiet, tractable, obedient,” was the quick reply. “We have never had to complain of his behaviour.”

“Yet he is the focus for much discontent,” smiled the Englishman, “the magnet for much ambition.”

The Grand Pensionary smiled also, uplifting his melancholy eyes.

“His Highness is but seventeen, immersed in study, brought up as a republican—I think he is even ignorant of these agitations in his name. He could not live more quietly.”

But it did not escape Sir William that the Grand Pensionary spoke like a man trying to reassure himself.

“The Prince is your pupil—forgive me, but, as I said, the situation is curious. You, sir, a republican—for seventeen years the head of a Republic which has been a fine nation, and a wealthy, and a lesson to all of us—you undertake the education of a Prince who is the heir of the House on whose ruin you founded your Republic; you bring this young man up in your ideas, you teach him this, that, as you will; you are not his master but his friend—he is to regard himself as a mere citizen of the country that is his heritage—well, it is a curious experiment, Mynheer de Witt.”

The Grand Pensionary answered quietly—

“I have done all I can—since we speak privately, not as politicians, I will say that I have no hope to always exclude His Highness from all power. I think that when he comes of age he will obtain the command of the army; nor do I regret it—the House of Orange has rendered such service to Holland that there should be some gratitude, some trust shown this Prince.”

Sir William closed the book he held and replaced it on the shelf.

“Meanwhile I train him to serve his country,” continued de Witt, with a faint smile.

“You serve your country well, Mynheer,” remarked the Englishman, watching him.

“I serve my ideals,” said the Grand Pensionary.

The Englishman very slightly shrugged his shoulders.

“In these days!—you have been successful, but I should watch this little Prince——”

“We stand firm—The Triple Alliance, the treaty of Breda—the Perpetual Edict,” quoted de Witt.

The diplomat who had framed the first had never approved of the last.

“There you went too far,” he said.

“There I secured the liberty of Holland,” answered the Grand Pensionary, still with that faint smile on his full, finely cut mouth, “and made impossible a recurrence of 1650—this Prince’s father brought his troops to the gates of Amsterdam, no man shall do that again; by abolishing the office of Stadtholder I do away with the fear of a king, and so, sir, secure my Republic.”

“Amen to that,” answered Sir William. “You have the confidence of the idealist. I love you for it, but I cannot be so sanguine—the Prince, if he is heir to nothing else, hath the name, the prestige, and that is a strange spell to work with the people.”

He looked, as he spoke, with the interest of the worldly man at a noble simplicity he admires but cannot comprehend. John de Witt was his friend, they had much in common, respected each other’s character and talents, but Sir William Temple had never ceased to marvel at John de Witt.

The Grand Pensionary was silent; a deep thoughtfulness came into his face. The Englishman watched him, smiling a little coldly.

“Do you think that I am not loved in the United Provinces?” asked de Witt suddenly.

Sir William fingered the ends of his cravat. The other did not wait for an answer so leisurely composed.

“This young man is popular—it sometimes seems, Sir William, as if he was heir to the heart of the people——”

“He has the name.”

“The name!—and, with the people, is not that everything? I think nothing weighs against the name. The Prince does little to make himself beloved, but there are those who clamour for him as if he owned his ancestor’s virtues with his ancestor’s titles.” And again M. de Witt repeated, “the name!”

Then, as if resolute to close the subject, he laid his hand familiarly on Sir William’s velvet sleeve.

“Will you not come into the garden?—the gardens, I have two that open into one. But you know too much, my poor trees will be shamed.”

They crossed the room and stepped out of the high window. The young secretary from Guelders leant back in his chair and watched them walking under the elms.

Not a word of their conversation had been lost on him, and now that he could no longer hear what they said he pondered, in his quick yet laborious way, over their previous speech.

He had been in M. de Witt’s service a week. It was in the course of his duty to overhear diplomatic talk, to read, and make notes on, political papers, and, though he had always considered himself well informed, he began to find that what was knowledge in Guelders was ignorance at the Hague.

He reviewed, rather sourly, the change in his feelings this week had brought about. He had been so proud of the post, so grateful for de Groot’s recommendation, so confident of what his own energy and industry would do for him; and now he did not feel at all confident.

Not that his trust in himself was diminished; but he had already begun to doubt if he had taken his services to the best market or pledged himself to the most profitable of masters.

He bit his quill and fixed his eyes on M. de Witt, who was standing, not far away, on the gravel path talking to his companion.

The secretary marked with a calculating glance the Grand Pensionary’s stately figure, clothed sombrely in black, his pale oval face, under jawed, the full but curiously firm and clean-cut mouth shaded by the slight moustache, the large, weary brown eyes, the high brow over which fell the soft dark hair that was just beginning to be touched with grey, and contrasted his melancholy, noble air with the vivacious ease of the splendid Englishman whose rich comeliness was enhanced by his elegant and costly dress.

As he looked, the young man from Guelders wondered. M. de Witt had been Grand Pensionary of the United Provinces for seventeen years; the secretary had long taken him for granted as something always there, immovable as the law he represented, and had no more questioned the authority than he had the power of this first magistrate of the Republic.

Only with difficulty and by forcing his mind back to his childhood could he recall something of the famous coup d’état that had made M. de Witt head of the State.

He recollected dimly the excitement that had filled the country when the young Stadtholder, William the Second, had tried to seize Amsterdam and the absolute power of a king. He remembered going with other boys of his own age to break the windows of a house that had sported Orange favours, and being rebuked by the minister, and made to stay longer in the gaunt white church praying for strength to curb his feelings.

He remembered, too, the news of the sudden death of the Prince who had threatened their liberties, and how they had thanked God for it solemnly. After that there had been the Republic, which he had taken unquestioningly. M. de Witt stood for the United Provinces; as for the last Prince of Orange, born after his father’s death, the heir of a fallen House, the secretary had never heard much of him. There had been quarrels as to his education between M. de Witt and his uncle the Elector, between his grandmother and his mother the English Princess.…

The secretary remembered hearing, without interest, of the death of this lady in England, and of how her son, more than ever a State prisoner, was being educated by M. de Witt.

There seemed no reason why he, Florent Van Mander, of the town of Arnheim, a prudent, able young Dutchman, honourably and profitably employed in the service of the Grand Pensionary, should be so laboriously recalling every detail he had ever heard of William of Orange.

But two things had taken hold of a nature naturally observant, cautious, yet energetic and aspiring: the first was the conviction that M. de Witt held a position by no means as secure as it seemed, a position that, despite the treaty of Breda, despite the Triple Alliance, was one that he, the new secretary, must watch carefully if he would not be entangled in a falling cause; and the second was the impression that this youth, the son of the late Stadtholder, was a latent force in Holland that might one day become tremendous, overwhelming.

“He has the name,” Sir William Temple had said, and the words had seized Florent Van Mander’s slow but not dull imagination. He thought that the Englishman had expressed less than he felt, and longed to hear him again on the subject.

He had only seen Sir William twice, but there was something in his easy, almost careless, manner, in the slightly disdainful shrewdness of his remarks, that inspired the secretary with a respect he did not entertain for John de Witt. He had an uncomfortable feeling that the Grand Pensionary was a man who might be, without much difficulty, fooled.

“I serve my ideals,” he had said.

That annoyed Van Mander. He had not a very clear conception of an idealist, but he was tolerably certain that no man could be one and still be successful in a practical way, and it had struck him as a pointless and rather weak thing to say—“I serve my ideals.”

He had noted other remarks, too, of the same trend; a certain loftiness of outlook, an unworldly tolerance of detraction and malice, that did not please him. He would have preferred a master more eagerly alive to his own advantage, more conscious of evil in others and prepared to fight it on its own grounds.

Sir William had also said other things that remained in the young secretary’s mind. He had spoken of the curious situation, the Republican Minister instructing and watching the Prince—at once tutor and jailer—and Florent Van Mander thought that it was indeed curious, and a little foolish, too, on the part of John de Witt.

And there were yet other aspects of the situation that the previous conversation had not touched on, but which were nevertheless present to the roused mind of the secretary.

This Prince was cousin of the King of France, a figure of dazzling and alarming greatness, and nephew of the King of England; and both these were of an aspect menacing to the Republic, true—there was the Triple Alliance, but——

The young secretary became aware that he had bitten his pen till it was split and useless, and he laid it down with a vexed look. He greatly disliked to do anything careless or unmethodical, or even to become absorbed in reflections not in themselves necessary to present business.

He took out another quill, mended it, and glanced again out of the window.

The Grand Pensionary and Sir William had been joined by Agneta de Witt—a pale, graceful, fragile-looking child—and Cornelia Van Bicker, the mistress of the house.

Looking at these ladies moving under the shifting, pale shadows of the trees, the young man’s rather hard eyes softened. He had the Dutchman’s intense respect for domestic affections, and to think of the recent death of Wendela de Witt moved him. He had never seen her, but he knew that she had been good and gentle, patient and adoring, like her daughter Agneta, and he guessed at the great loneliness that her loss had left in the heart of John de Witt. He thought of it whenever he saw her sister, Cornelia Van Bicker, or one of her quiet, sweet-voiced children.

As he watched, the little party turned towards the house, Sir William in his blue-and-gold velvet ruffled with ribbon, his heavy curls falling round his handsome face, walking beside the Grand Pensionary, who had no relief to his black garments save his broad linen collar, and between them the little figure of Agneta in her white gown and prim cap, holding herself soberly, while before them moved the sister of Wendela de Witt, self-contained, plainly dressed, with the fading, changing, sunlight flickering over her dark dress.

Florent Van Mander returned to the letter he was copying, for he observed the Grand Pensionary was leaving the others and returning to the library.

When M. de Witt opened the window and entered, he rose, waiting his instructions.

“I have finished these documents, Mynheer,” he said, pointing to some papers given him by another secretary. “Van Ouvenaller thought they should be copied in case you care to submit them to Their High Mightinesses.”

“What are they?” asked John de Witt. He always spoke gently and courteously; to-night Van Mander found himself noticing it.

“Letters from the Provinces, Mynheer,” he answered, “dealing with the riots in the name of the Prince of Orange——”

“Ah, that.” The Grand Pensionary frowned thoughtfully. “The burgomasters should be able to deal with it.”

“It seems in Zeeland——”

“You have a letter from Zeeland?”

“From Mynheer Van Teel—one Michael Tichelaer is inciting the people to violence in Middelburg.”

“Michael Tichelaer,” M. de Witt repeated thoughtfully. “Yes, I remember the man—I must write to Mynheer Van Teel.” He paused a moment, then added, “I fear we are too lenient.”

The secretary sorted and neatly arranged the papers. It was not his place to offer comment, but there were many things that he burned to say.

Meanwhile the Grand Pensionary was regarding him with a kindly if remote interest. The young man had been warmly recommended for zeal and industry, and so far he had found both; he saw too, for himself, resolution and capacity in the blunt, firm features, in the alert grey eyes and erect figure.

“You are satisfied with your position, Mynheer Van Mander?” he asked.

“Quite, Mynheer,”—the secretary precisely tied the ribbons of the portfolio,—“is it not an enviable one?”

“You may make it so,” answered John de Witt quietly, yet with a kind of glow in his voice, “—because you are in the way to serve your country, and that is indeed an enviable thing.”

Florent Van Mander was silent. His country was not much in his thoughts; he meant to serve success.

“I think there is nothing more to-night,” said M. de Witt. “You will be wishing to get home—have you comfortable lodgings?” he added kindly.

“Yes, Mynheer, in the Kerkestraat.”

“You must dine with us soon. Will you leave out the letter from Middelburg? I need not remind you to be early in the morning—there is somewhat to do. Good-night, Mynheer.”

“Good-night, Mynheer.”

M. de Witt smiled in his melancholy, half tender, half distant fashion and left the room.

Florent Van Mander put away the papers, setting aside in an upper drawer the letter from Van Teel, locked the desk and placed the key on his watch-chain.

The sunlight in the garden was taking on a deeper hue and flushing the walls of the library and the well-filled bookcases to a red-gold colour; the leaves of the wych elms shook in a trembling, joyous kind of life and motion in the strong yet gentle breeze that was arising.

The deep, solemn chimes of the Groote Kerk struck six.

It was later than the secretary had supposed; he usually had his dinner at this hour. He took his eyes from the quiet beauty of the garden and hastened to leave the house.

The dining-room door was open as he passed down the hall, and he had a glimpse of the company gathered round the plainly furnished table. John de Witt at the head of it, saying grace with an earnest composure; Cornelia Van Bicker standing with folded hands, the bright English face of Lady Temple above her falling lace collar; and Sir William, tolerant, good-humouredly amused and placid.

The young secretary passed out into the street. The sunshine was pleasant down the Kneuterdyk Avenue, bright in the windows of the houses opposite, and gay in the trees that were just turning a faint tint of yellow. A saltish breeze touched Van Mander’s face, it was blowing straight across the flat country, up from the sea at Scheveningen, and brought with it memories of the dunes, the sand, and the foam.

An unnamable, an unreal excitement stole into the blood that usually ran so coolly; just as if the young man had suddenly heard commanding music or seen a flag flung out against the sky. This feeling had been with him slightly ever since he had entered the service of John de Witt; to-night it culminated.

In the Englishman’s words, he thought—

“He has the name.”

Florent Van Mander could not forget that remark nor the tone in which it was spoken. It seemed to give the clue to his own restlessness, his curiosity as to the Prince—his discontent with his new master.

The name!

The sense of it, the power, were about him in the keen breeze, in the sunlit trees, in the whole atmosphere of the royal Hague.

As he turned home he repeated it to himself—

“William of Orange.…”

CHAPTER II
THE INTRIGUERS

Florent Van Mander, comfortable after his dinner, sitting at his open window smoking, and watching the people pass up and down the Kerkestraat, was surprised, not disagreeably, by the servant entering his solitude to announce a visitor owning a foreign name she stumbled over.

Hyacinthe St. Croix—Van Mander had known him in Arnheim when he himself was a magistrate’s clerk there, ambitious, with an eye on the Hague, and the Frenchman a half disavowed agent of the Marquis de Pomponne, some one who had travelled the Provinces several times already, observing, noting, making acquaintances and gathering information where he could.

The young secretary called for candles—he had been sitting in the dark—and closed the window.

On the heels of the maid with the lights came St. Croix, better dressed, more self-confident, more assured in manner than formerly.

The two greeted each other formally.

“I did not know that you were at the Hague,” said Van Mander. “How did you find me?”

The Frenchman laid his hat and gloves on one of the high-backed chairs.

“I was passing through Arnheim the other day—I called upon your uncle and he told me. You have a good post.”

Florent put a chair for his guest and took one himself the other side of the small dark table; between them stood the two heavy branch candlesticks, glimmering each in the light of the other candles that illuminated the small, neat room with its deep window-seat, polished wood furniture, plain engravings on the walls and Delft pottery on the chimney-piece.

Florent refilled his pipe and invited the other to smoke. The two long clays soon filled the chamber with slow, fragrant smoke.

“So you are in the service of M. de Witt,” remarked St. Croix.

“Yes.”

The Frenchman smiled as he pondered on the best means of getting what he wanted from the laconic Dutchman; it was astonishingly difficult, he found, to deal with a nation so blunt and so reserved.

In the silence that followed Florent stared at him stolidly, marking every detail of his appearance, his short red jacket of the newest French fashion showing the laced shirt beneath, the cravat and ruffles of lace, the silk stockings and shoes with ribbon rosettes, the frizzled, fair hair that framed the small-featured, rather insignificant face of Hyacinthe St. Croix.

Van Mander had the national contempt of foreign luxury, but these signs of prosperity annoyed him in a slow kind of way. He knew St. Croix was of the small gentry, no better born than himself, and not so long ago no better dressed; now he contrasted this gay attire with his own serviceable grey and worsted hose, and wished he had been the one to find such profitable employment.

“How do you like M. de Witt?” asked St. Croix suddenly.

“Very well,” said Florent.

The Frenchman regarded him out of narrowed eyes, and asked again, with equal abruptness—

“Have you seen the Prince of Orange?”

“No.”

“But you have heard, since you have been at the Hague, a great deal of him?”

“I have heard of him,” answered Florent.

St. Croix laid down his pipe.

“You have drawn your own conclusions, of course,” he said. “You were always shrewd.”

Florent was flattered and excited; he managed to show neither feeling.

“I have drawn some conclusions,” was all he admitted.

“On the position of the Prince—and of M. de Witt?”

“I have only been at the Hague a week——”

But Hyacinthe St. Croix knew fairly well the man he dealt with.

“Come,” he said in an intimate tone that swept aside evasion, “you know as well as I do that this Government must fall.”

The words gave the young secretary a shock. He sat silent, sucking his pipe, not wishing to admit that he was startled.

The Frenchman leant back calmly in his chair.

“The whole feeling of the country is against M. de Witt,” he continued. “You must have seen it.”

It occurred to Florent, in a vague, impersonal sort of way, that the Grand Pensionary’s secretary had no right to be listening to these things, or even to be speaking at all to a Frenchman intriguing for his Ambassador; but he told himself that he served success, and success did not seem to lie with M. de Witt.

“Yet we are at peace at home and abroad,” he remarked, to probe the other.

St. Croix smiled.

“You think of the Triple Alliance,” he said.

“True—only signed this year,” returned Florent. “Still there is always France.”

“Also do not be too sure of England,” said St. Croix. “Despite the Triple Alliance—she stands very well with France—I could tell you something——”

Florent Van Mander looked him straight in the face.

“Do you mean that France and England might combine for the restoration of the Prince of Orange?”

The Frenchman lifted his eyebrows.

“Upon conditions—they might. If there were a war what could M. de Witt do?”

Van Mander thought a moment.

“He beat England in ’56—but now——”

“He could do nothing against France—that is obvious.”

“Yes, it is obvious,” admitted Florent.

“And the prospect is threatening.”

“I know——”

“Well, you see the part the Prince will play?”

There was a little pause, then the Dutchman said slowly—

“He is King Louis’ cousin and King Charles’ nephew——”

“You take me,” replied St. Croix, “the Prince is related to their Majesties—and he has no cause to love M. de Witt.”

Florent drew a quick breath.

“You think he … would work for France?”

“Can there be a doubt of it?” smiled St. Croix.

There was no answer from Florent. He laid down his pipe and sat still, considering.

Rumours, whispers, hints were taking at last tangible form: this young prisoner, pupil of M. de Witt, was to be the instrument to deliver the country into the rapacious hands of France. Well, there was little cause to wonder; indeed he had almost guessed it. The Prince had, as St. Croix said, little cause to love either M. de Witt or his Republic.

He raised his grey eyes and looked into the Frenchman’s face—

“These are strange things to say to a Dutchman and a servant of M. de Witt.”

St. Croix answered quickly—

“But you serve success.”

At these words, that he did not recall having ever uttered to this man, Florent was again silent. It was perfectly true; he was at the beginning of his career and ambitious; he had no desire to follow a falling cause. The Republic was no more to him than the Prince, he told himself; and there was no reason that he should not, out of the crisis that threatened, earn a place and distinction for himself.

St. Croix observed him closely. He was not afraid of having said too much, for he had read his man, some years before, in Guelders.

“It seems I serve the wrong master now,” said Florent at last, with a grim set to his mouth. “I must not look out for fortune in the train of M. de Witt.”

The Frenchman answered slowly and with meaning—

“There is fortune, and great fortune, to be found in the service of M. de Witt, by men like you who know how to look for it.…”

Once more Florent was silent. He kept his eyes fixed on the dark surface of the table, where the reflected lights of the candles glimmered. He thought that he understood.

“The Prince,” continued St. Croix, “and the power behind the Prince, can be very well served by one in the pay of M. de Witt.”

Florent was now sure that he understood. Not by being loyal to his master, but by betraying him was he to satisfy his ambitions. The way of success lay not with the Grand Pensionary—but with the Prince, who was another name for France.

For the moment his instinct was to resent this calm suggestion that he was the willing instrument of foreign intrigue, but quick reflection showed him the folly of it. St. Croix knew him; some time past, in Guelders, he had taken money for such information of Dutch politics as he could command. His hesitation took another form.

“How am I to know that this Prince of yours is worth serving—at a risk?” he said.

“You know that France is worth serving.”

“Buat died,” remarked Florent dryly, “for tampering with France.”

“Buat was a fool,” returned St. Croix; “and we do not want any knight-errantry from you—one of M. de Witt’s secretaries cannot fail to be useful—you will see how.”

“Yes, I see how,” answered Florent; “but at present M. de Witt represents the Government and the law, and the Prince is a powerless cipher——”

“Not so powerless; we are in touch with him, he commands a section of the nobles—and he has the name.”

Florent, hearing again the words used by Sir William Temple, started inwardly. It was curious that the name that owed its prestige and its weight to the fact that it was the name of the man who had first given Holland her liberty was to be used now to aid in her downfall.

“He is a boy,” said Van Mander quickly. “He has been brought up by M. de Witt—educated as a republican——”

St. Croix smiled.

“Is M. de Witt clever enough to train a prince into a commoner? I do not think so.”

Interest shone in Florent’s grey eyes.

“How far has the Prince gone—with France?”

“He is of an extraordinary caution—he will not commit himself while he is in the power of M. de Witt, but take it from me that he does not love him.… Has he cause to?—after the Act of Exclusion?… His only hope lies in England and France, and he knows it.”

“You confirm what I have ever heard,” answered Florent. “The Prince is only a figure-head,—a cloak to cover the designs of France.”

St. Croix nodded.

“Put it so if you will. And now,” he instinctively lowered his voice, “I come to the main object of my visit.”

A little colour flushed Florent’s face. He had wondered from the first what particular meaning there could be in St. Croix seeking him out. His position was one of power certainly, if put to a traitorous use, but De Pomponne must have many agents and spies. He waited.

“You will understand,” continued St. Croix, leaning forward across the table, “that the Prince is kept very close. His governor, his tutors, his gentlemen, are all M. de Witt’s men and practically his jailers. He cannot go abroad unattended nor receive any one alone; his letters are read—his movements, his speech, watched. It is almost impossible for us to convey to him any message—M. le Marquis de Pomponne’s audiences are formal, and always under the eye of some creature of M. de Witt,—here you can help us.”

Florent still waited. He would not, on the first asking, have betrayed M. de Witt wholesale, but he was not averse to some service to the other side.

The Frenchman smoothed down the ruffles at his wrist, keeping his eyes on his listener.

“M. de Witt visits the Prince almost every day—Tuesday afternoons he devotes to instructing him in politics, afterwards going to the assembly in the Binnenhof. It is his practice to take one of his secretaries with him—it would be possible for this man to convey a packet to the Prince.”

Florent answered quietly, but his eyes shone—

“You want me to try?”

“Yes.”

“A servant of the Prince whom we have used,” St. Croix went on, “as a go-between has lately been suspected, and dismissed by M. de Witt; we are hard put to it for a means to communicate with the Prince.”

Florent straightened himself in the stiff chair. To-morrow was Tuesday.

“Van Ouvenaller accompanied M. de Witt last week,” he said. “I think it very likely that M. de Witt will request me to do so this—but I shall be left in the antechamber.…”

St. Croix shrugged his shoulders.

“As to that—you must find your chance—better wait than risk detection.… I leave it to your discretion.”

“I am not imprudent,” smiled Florent. “Give me the packet—if I go I will attempt it; if not I can, as you say, wait.…”

The Frenchman took a thick, folded letter from the inner lining of his red coat and laid it on the table between them.

“If that reach His Highness safely it will be a service M. de Pomponne will not forget,” he said impressively.

“I will do my best,” answered Florent, “but I still value my place; while M. de Witt is Grand Pensionary I think it worth while to be in his good graces.”

Hyacinthe St. Croix rose.

“France has her heel on Europe,” he said. “With the help of this little Prince she will have the United Provinces—” he began to pull on his fringed gloves—“I give this Government two—three years—no more.”

“There is England,” remarked Florent, still thinking of the Triple Alliance.

“England—like Sweden—may take her price,” returned St. Croix.

Florent rose too.

“The politics of this land are shaken up and down like sand tossed in the palm,” he said, as if he had suddenly roused himself. “I am in the employ of the Government, but in no way bound to any master—tell M. le Marquis de Pomponne so—as M. de Witt’s secretary I know something.…”

“How much?” asked St. Croix, lacing his gloves.

Florent answered steadily—

“I know that M. de Witt is afraid.”

“Of France—of England?”

“Of William of Orange.”

“He hath good cause,” answered St. Croix. He picked up his hat with the fine buckle, his satin-lined cloak. “I think if His Highness once gave the signal the whole country would be in arms. There is a strange revulsion of feeling against this ideal republic, is there not?”

Florent was taciturn again. He raised one of the brass candlesticks.

“The stairs are very dark,” he said, and opened the door. He made no show of friendliness or hospitality, no attempt to draw the Frenchman. He wanted to be alone. “When shall I see you again?” he asked.

St. Croix hitched up his sword-belt.

“Better not meet here again, nor at the house of M. le Marquis where I stay.… There is a small tavern kept by a Frenchman near the Nieuwe Kerk—the Nieuwe Doelen he calls it—we may meet there—say Wednesday evening—six of the clock.”

Florent came out on to the landing with his visitor and held the candle so that a flickering radiance was cast down the sombre stairway.

“I will come if I can,” he answered slowly.

“Au revoir,” said St. Croix, and added some laughing commonplace for the benefit of any maid-servant who might be in hearing.

Florent waited with the light until the gay feather and mantle had disappeared round the bend of the stairs, then he returned to his room and took up the letter left by St. Croix. It was sealed in three places with the Marquis de Pomponne’s signet, and addressed formally to: “His Highness William Henry, Prince of Orange Nassau,” etc., as if the scribe had enjoyed writing out the fine titles.

Fine titles indeed to belong to an insignificant tool of France—but Florent at once checked that foolish reflection. The Prince was behaving prudently, much in his way as he, Florent Van Mander, was, in following success and securing his own ambitions. He was doing, in fact, the one thing there was for him to do—a bargain with France or England was his one means of escape.

Florent turned the letter over. He was curious to know exactly what it contained; he wished that he had asked St. Croix.

He was curious, also, to see the Prince, to judge him for himself. He thrilled with unreasonable excitement at the thought of meeting him.

A distant, threatening noise coming from the street below made him quickly put the letter into his pocket and go to the window.

He was not in much doubt of what it was—another of those noisy, useless Orange riots, dispersed by the train-bands and always ignored by M. de Witt; a handful of discontented people headed by boyish enthusiasts like the young student Jacob Van der Graef. Florent was not greatly interested in them.

He leant out of the window.

Everything had faded into the heavy grey of a cloudy night; the straight lines of the houses opposite the great tower of the Groote Kerk, the poplar tree that rustled so persistently; a new moon, clear out, hard, shone through the hurrying vapours.

By the street-lamps’ feeble glow Florent could see some people running up the street towards the scene of the riot; they carried sticks and swords, and some wore Orange favours.

He smiled cynically to himself, reflecting how little they knew that the Prince whom they shouted for as an embodiment of all patriotic virtue was in reality sacrificing them to their greatest enemy, bargaining away their liberty for his personal advancement.

They are mostly fools, he thought, and shivered back from the sea wind, closing the window.

For a long while he sat silent in his comfortable room, smoking, and staring at his own shadow the candlelight cast over the dark walls. Once or twice he took the letter given by Hyacinthe St. Croix out of his pocket and fingered and scrutinised it, thinking the while—thinking.

And from without came the remote sounds of the students fighting, shouting, tussling with the train-bands in the name of William of Orange.

Florent Van Mander almost envied men who could be so simple.

CHAPTER III
MASTER AND PUPIL

“Do you accompany M. de Witt to-day?” asked Van Ouvenaller.

Florent replied without looking up—

“Yes.”

“I think he will be out of humour,” remarked the other secretary,—“I do not mean angry, like other men, but sad.”

The note of admiration in his voice was marked. Florent continued docketing the papers, letters from England, before him; Van Ouvenaller, who had just entered the library, stood against the desk looking down at him.

“It is this pastor,” he continued. “He has very ill repaid M. de Witt’s courtesy.”

“Mynheer the Pastor Simon Simonides?” inquired Florent. “I saw him—why did he come here?”

“By the order of Their High Mightinesses,” answered the other, with some satisfaction, “to ask M. de Witt’s pardon for a sermon he preached some days ago—before you came to the Hague.”

Florent glanced up.

“A treasonable sermon?”

“He strove to stir the people into sedition by accusing them of ingratitude to the Prince of Orange, and spoke very burningly against the Republic.”

“He looked sour and fierce,” said Florent, “but M. de Witt was very gracious to him.”

“Too gracious,” returned Van Ouvenaller, with some heat. “He said as sole reproof—‘Mynheer, you have outstepped your duty, which is to heal, not to create, discord,’ and with that made him stay to dinner. But the old man was not softened; he left as hot against us as he had come.”

“Why should M. de Witt care?” asked Florent.

Van Ouvenaller slightly smiled.

“You do not know him; he cannot bear to feel any against him—if he thinks the people dislike, distrust him, it strikes at his heart. It is the same with the Prince. I swear that since Mynheer took over His Highness’ education his one idea has been to gain his friendship.”

The speaker’s worn, plain face lit; it was clear he admired his master—to a foolish extent Florent thought.

Van Ouvenaller spoke again.

“You have not seen the Prince?”

“No—I am curious.”

The older secretary made no answer. He fixed his eyes on the picture of the garden seen through the straight window, with the afternoon sunshine in the trees and the figure of Agneta de Witt seated in the shade, spinning, her brass-bound Bible beside her.

Florent gazed too.

“This must be dull for M. de Witt’s children.”

Van Ouvenaller answered quickly—

“They do not live here, but with M. de Witt’s sister, at Dordt. This is a visit.”

“Then without them,” smiled Florent, “this great house must be very dull indeed.”

“It is quiet,” said Van Ouvenaller simply, “but one is too immersed in affairs to notice it; and M. de Witt will always live quietly now Madame de Witt is dead.”

Then he drew out his watch and added, in a changed tone—

“M. de Witt will be waiting for you—have you the papers?”

Florent put them into the red velvet bag that went daily to and fro in the Hague, containing, as a foreigner remarked, half scornful, half admiring, “the most important documents in Europe,” took his hat and cloak from the wall, saluted Van Ouvenaller and stepped into the hall. He did not need to betake himself to the Grand Pensionary’s private cabinet, for John de Witt came down the wide, pleasant stairs with his hat on.

“You are punctual.” He smiled, drawing on his gloves slowly. He was entirely in black save for his falling lace collar, and looked pale and tired. “I have been a little delayed to-day. We go first, Mynheer Van Mander, to His Highness’ house”—he avoided pointedly the word “palace,”—“afterwards to the Binnenhof.”

Florent ventured on no comment. He half resented the notable simplicity with which the Grand Pensionary of the United Provinces walked through the streets of the Hague attended only by himself carrying the famous red bag. Of what use was power, he thought, if it but meant the taking up of an enormous weight of cares and anxieties and receiving in return the treatment of an ordinary burgher citizen?

John de Witt did not speak as they went along, and it was with an absorbed, though courteous, air that he returned the many salutations bestowed. Florent wondered what he was reflecting upon, and if the grim unfriendliness of the old Calvinist pastor still troubled him. Then, as they reached the low buildings of the Palace, he snatched his own thoughts to the moment. He must have his wits about him—there was St. Croix’s letter.

They were received by Mynheer Van Ghent, the Prince’s governor, in a fine but gloomy chamber with a painted ceiling.

Half the Palace, considered now the property of the State, was locked up, and the Prince allowed but the use of one wing. To Florent the room had an air of mournful splendour—built for a palace and used as a prison—there was a sense of sombre dreariness over the whole building; the furniture was scant and plain, there were no pictures on the walls, and the bookcases, plain and austere, held volumes of a severe look and character, mostly on mathematics or tactics.

A gloomy place for a young man to live in, watched by enemies; a dreary place for a Prince to be brought up in, surrounded by cold faces, by suspicion, distrust, and enmity; a cheerless habitation for the heir to a ruined House, friendless, early orphaned, and forced to guard his every word and look.

M. de Witt’s policy might be that of conciliation and concession; he might hold out his hand sincerely, and with his heart in it, but it was not easy to imagine life as very pleasant for the young Prince in these stern environments.

Mynheer Van Ghent talked a little with the Grand Pensionary. Florent had heard that the Prince hated his governor; it was common knowledge that he had fallen ill of chagrin when forced to part with his former tutor, his uncle Mynheer de Zuylestein. Florent therefore observed Mynheer Van Ghent closely, and found in him nothing displeasing, but rather a kind of melancholy austerity and a gentle demeanour.

He stood a little apart from him and his master, and could not hear what the two were saying; their voices were low and guarded. He wondered where the Prince was; if he would see him; if he would, possibly, be able to convey Pomponne’s letter.…

The heavy door at the end of the room, which was not far from him, opened quietly; a young man stepped into the apartment and closed the door after him.

Florent was startled, taken aback, confused. The young man regarded him out of a pair of remarkable eyes, gave him a slow, mournful, unsmiling glance, and seemed to hesitate.

Florent was not sure. The youth was plainly, even shabbily dressed, and looked too grave and tall for seventeen.

But de Witt turned and held out his hand.

“I find Your Highness well?” he inquired.

William of Orange crossed the room.

“I am very well,” he answered respectfully. He bent his head to his governor and to the Grand Pensionary. “Will you come into the other room to-day, Mynheer?” he added. “I have desired a fire there.”

Florent Van Mander was studying him greedily now, cursing himself, too, for a lost chance. That moment when the Prince entered he could have slipped the package into his very hand if only he had known him at first sight. He drew the letter out of his pocket, watching the Prince the while.

M. de Witt had his back to him.

Certainly His Highness was tall for his age, and with none of the awkwardness of boyhood; he was elegant rather, delicately made, and carried himself with an air of unnatural, almost dangerous, quiet and control.

Despite his plain dress and subdued manner, he was not in the least insignificant, but of a noticeable and princely appearance. To Florent, even at this first glance, a personality masterful and attractive.

The three came down the room towards the secretary, the Prince a little in advance.

Florent could note his face, pale and clear complexioned, with a high-arched nose and curved lips set firmly, wonderful eyes, hazel green, large and brilliant under dark reddish brows, and a low white forehead shaded with heavy auburn curls that fell on to his linen collar,—M. de Witt’s secretary had that swift impression of the Prince and as swift an inspiration. He stooped as if to pick something up.

“Your Highness dropped this,” he said as the Prince reached him. He held out his handkerchief, concealed in it the Frenchman’s letter.

William of Orange turned his head. There was a look about his brow and mouth as if he controlled incessant pain, but neither that nor the expression of gravity that made him appear old for his years could destroy the charm of his youth. His eyes fixed on Florent.

“Thank you, Mynheer,” he said, and put out his small, aristocratic hand.

Florent thrilled as their fingers touched. The Prince slipped the handkerchief into his pocket and passed on.

Now that it was done Florent marvelled that he had had the temerity to venture it. The Prince, though he must have known that it was not his handkerchief, and have felt at once the packet inside the cambric, gave not the slightest sign of discomposure. It was perfectly done; Florent saw in it the training of one brought up amid spies and enemies—but he had risked something in taking this youth’s prudence so for granted.

The Prince did not look at the secretary again, but passed into the next chamber with M. de Witt.

As he closed the door he gave a sharp glance at the Grand Pensionary, then crossed to a little table by the window and seated himself there.

They were in a small room, lit by a fire that burnt pleasantly between the andirons on the blue-tiled hearth. The walls were hung with stamped leather; in one corner stood a globe, and beside it a desk covered with maps and plans.

M. de Witt took the chair by the fireplace and turned so that he faced the Prince. His sad, tender eyes were fixed with an almost yearning expression on the graceful figure of the young man who, half leaning against the desk, sat waiting, in an expressionless, quiet attitude.

The Grand Pensionary loosened his heavy cloak.

“We will have no lesson to-day, Highness,” he said. “I have to speak of practical politics—and am here to talk gravely with you.”

“That is as you wish, Mynheer,” answered William. He had a voice naturally changeful and musical, but, like his eyes and his movements, it was controlled to a cold expressionlessness.

“I hope that it will also be your wish,” said M. de Witt, “when I tell you that it is of the affairs of Holland I desire to speak.”

“I am always at the disposal of Their High Mightinesses,” replied William, with the slightest inflection of sarcasm.

John de Witt made an open gesture with his fine right hand as if to sweep aside all formality and convention.

“It must not be like this between us, Highness,” he said, with great gentle sweetness. “Of late you have met me somewhat coldly. Why?”

William sat up slowly, his eyes were averted.

“I have often assured you, Mynheer,” he answered, “of my duty and affection. Have Their High Mightinesses anything to complain of?”

Again there was that faint stress on the pompous title.

M. de Witt regarded him steadily.

“I spoke for myself, Highness, thinking that the services I have rendered you, the affection I have always felt for you might have kept me some place in your esteem.”

Still the Prince would not answer the appeal in the words, even by raising his eyes.

“I have always striven,” he said, “to express my gratitude to you, Mynheer, for your constant care.”

There was a look almost of wonder on the noble face of M. de Witt, as if he could hardly credit the unmoved composure of this boy.

“I have not come, Highness, to exchange with you the language of diplomacy,” he said.

William looked up now.

“It is the only language I have had the chance to learn, Mynheer.”

John de Witt gazed at him gently and sadly.

“I have never taught you anything but frankness, Highness—I have deserved both your trust and your affection. It has been my dearest wish, my most cherished hope, that I might educate you to become my friend, my ally in the government of the United Provinces.”

The Prince made the slightest movement and again averted his eyes.

“You are no child now,” continued M. de Witt; “and must fairly well understand your position … and mine.”

“I understand both, Mynheer,” answered William.

“You have been educated as a citizen of Holland, and it is to the citizen of Holland that I have come to speak to-day.” M. de Witt paused a moment. He was slightly flushed, and his voice was full of emotion. “I have striven to make you worthy of your grandfather and of that ancestor of yours who secured us our liberty, and it is my wish to obtain for you those dignities that are the heritage of your House—all that are compatible with the safety of this Republic.”

William, still looking away, spoke slowly—

“The Republic has nothing to fear from me, Mynheer. I, surely, am of but little account in the State.”

M. de Witt was observing him very closely.

“You have the name, Highness,” he said; “you must know that. And it is a power, you must know that also. You are the heir of the family that once ruled Holland, and you are used as the rallying point of all the malcontents.”

William glanced up with a curious, intense expression.

“You speak very frankly, Mynheer.”

“I have no object to serve by dissimulation,” answered John de Witt. “I come to you single-mindedly. I can claim to have always spoken openly to you, Highness, since you first were of an age to understand these matters.”

He paused, bending his eyes on the Prince. His manner and speech were weighty. His entire thought, his entire energy seemed concentrated on what he said; as if he, the great and lofty statesman, strove by sheer force of strength of character to overwhelm, rouse, and conquer the impassive youth before him.

“Openly I spoke to you once before, Highness. When Their High Mightinesses passed the Perpetual Edict I told you that we abolished the office of the Stadtholder out of regard for the liberty of the country. I assured you of my friendship—but I told you plainly that we would risk no recurrence of 1650.”

The Prince coughed slightly and lowered his eyes.

“I remember, Mynheer, very well.”

“And now, again, I have to speak of the safety of the United Provinces, Highness.”

William answered without moving—

“What have I to do, Mynheer, with the safety of the State?”

“I will make that clear to you,” said John de Witt gravely. “I cannot tell how much you know of what this party does in your name; I refuse to believe that you encourage them——”

“Could I have been more dutiful to the State, more quiet than I have been?” interrupted William. He gave no sign of any feeling or agitation save that the wild-rose colour of delicate health had deepened in his thin cheeks.

“You have been too quiet,” answered the Grand Pensionary. “I want you to act, Highness.”

He waited a second, but the Prince did not speak.

“I am greatly troubled,” continued M. de Witt, with a stately simplicity, “by these men who strive to hinder and oppose the Government. You know their names, Count Frederick William, M. Beverningh, M. Zuylestein, M. Fagel——”

“None of these are my friends save M. Zuylestein,” returned the Prince; “and you have good cause to know, Mynheer, that I see nothing of him——”

“M. Zuylestein left your service because I doubted his loyalty to the Republic,” said John de Witt sternly; “and now he works discord in Zeeland. And for the others, whether you know it or not, they traffic in your name, Highness.”

“In what manner, Mynheer?”

“In what manner?—they meddle with France and England, they sow dissension in the town councils, in the Assembly itself; they riot in the street—I think that you must know it, Highness.… Every reasonable concession hath been made, but no reasonable concession will content them. It was agreed that the question of the Captain-Generalship, of the seat in the Council of State, should be postponed until you were of age; they agitate for these honours now—you must know this also, Highness.”

The Prince glanced at him sideways, then looked very quickly down again.

“In Zeeland, where you are premier noble, your partisans make the excuse of your titles of Ter Veere and Flushing to demand your appearance in their council now they consider you of age.” And for the third time he added—“You must know this, Highness.”

He paused impressively, and his eyes were dark and ardently commanding on the Prince.

William put his hand to his brow as if he made a mechanical movement to ease a constant pain there.

“What do you wish me to do?” he asked quietly.

M. de Witt answered at once—

“I want you to disown this party—they may act without your sanction, they cannot act in face of your disapproval—I want you as an ally, as a friend——”

“I am powerless as either, Mynheer,” returned the Prince; “and,” he suddenly turned his wonderful eyes on the Grand Pensionary, “since you designate these you speak of as my friends, to what in me do you appeal to act against them?”

There was a flash of imperiousness in his tone new to M. de Witt. It was almost the manner of a king to a subject; it gave the Grand Pensionary the bewildered sense that he, with twenty years’ experience of affairs and the management of men, was not equal to this boy whom he had seen grow up, whom he had himself educated.

“I appeal to you as a citizen of the Republic,” he said. “I have not brought you up to put yourself before your country—” he hesitated a moment before continuing, “I have always thought you of too great a nature to prefer the phantom of personal aggrandisement to the good of the Commonwealth——”

It seemed as if, on an impulse, William was about to speak, but he checked himself, and M. de Witt went on—

“Will you let yourself, Highness, be used to stir up faction in the State?—will you be an instrument in the hands of ambitious place-seekers?”

“I cannot help my birth, Mynheer,” answered the Prince, “nor prevent the people from using my name.”

He had not lowered his clear, brilliant glance, and the two pairs of eyes met across the small, firelit room. John de Witt’s met a fathomless, inscrutable look, and a horrible mistrust of this too composed youth crept into his mind—a distrust he had known before and always fought against and dismissed—

But William of Orange was the nephew of Charles of England and the cousin of Louis of France.

“I believe France meditates the destruction of the United Provinces,” De Witt said suddenly. “Colbert envies our commerce and King Louis is mad for conquest.… I do not trust England.”

The Prince, never altering his easy attitude, nor changing the level tones of his voice, nor in any way taking heed of the feeling that surged behind de Witt’s words, put his hand slowly to his breast, where, in the pocket of his black waistcoat, lay the letter wrapped in Florent Van Mander’s handkerchief.

“What has this to do with the object of your coming, Mynheer?” he asked.

The Grand Pensionary found the almost unnatural composure and control of this boy agitating him; the colour came into his face.

“France might seize any pretext,” he said. “Any pretext—if we are to stand we must be united——”

William slightly raised his fine red brows.

“So distinguished a statesman as yourself, Mynheer—will know how to meet any misfortune that threatens you.”

M. de Witt regarded him earnestly. Had he failed—had the royal breed been too powerful for all his careful training? He thought he traced in the commanding eyes and curved mouth of the Prince the arrogance, the hauteur of regal blood, not so easy to quench or overcome—had he failed?… Many had foretold he would. Had he undertaken too confidently the task of making into a staunch, loyal republican the heir of the oldest House in Europe, the son of a man who had risked all in an attempt at sovereign power and of a woman too proud to speak to a commoner.…

“You speak as if with hate of me,” he said, and there was a half sad confession of failure in the words. “But for Holland—you love Holland?”

William was leaning against the side of his chair, resting his hand on the arm of it.

“Both you and my country, Mynheer,” he replied, “have my duty and my affection; my position makes me powerless to help either.…”

M. de Witt gave him a flashing glance.

“You can serve your country, Highness, by withdrawing from all association with these noisy partisans of yours—by letting it be known that you do not desire to be regarded as the Prince of Orange, heir to an extinct office, but as a citizen of the United Provinces.”

The Prince coughed, and again put his hand to his head. The delicate colour had faded from his face, he was pale to the lips.

“You best qualify yourself for the offices that may one day be yours by quiet study and severe application,” continued M. de Witt. “Not by endeavouring to thrust yourself (upon the selfish suggestions of sordid ambition) into power for which your youth renders you unfit, and into places from which the law debars you.”

William gave one of his rare, slow smiles; it seemed to rob the Grand Pensionary’s speech of half its weight and meaning.

“My docility hath not deserved this, Mynheer,” he said. “Half the people at the Hague would not know me if they saw me, and you accuse me of endeavouring to win the suffrage of the mob——”

“No,” interrupted De Witt. “No.…”

“You accuse me,” continued William, “of selfish ambition.… I have not lifted a finger to alter my position—I have always been the humble servant of yourself, Mynheer, and Their High Mightinesses.”

“This is evasion,” said the Grand Pensionary in a mournful anger. “I came to Your Highness with an appeal—will you work with me or no?”

“I am always at your service,” answered the Prince.

It seemed that in no way could M. de Witt break through this even, immovable courtesy. His anger began to rise against a nature that could turn to him this hard reserve. He recalled his patient services, his honest attempt to win the Prince, his frankness towards the Orange party, his loyal endeavour that his young ward should not suffer for the misfortune of his House, his eagerness to establish a friendship with the Prince so that one day they might work together for the good of the land. Now it would seem all this had largely been in vain. The first time he put it to the issue he found that he dealt with intractable, unyielding, perhaps treacherous, material … treacherous—that stinging thought, not to be banished, roused him almost unbearably.

“You shut me out of your confidence, Highness,” he said. “You will neither trust me nor be frank with me.… I do not know what policy you pursue, nor whose advice you follow in refusing to treat me as what I have ever endeavoured to be—your friend.… I do not know, I say, your counsellors, but I think they advise you ill.…”

“I follow mine own counsels, Mynheer.”

John de Witt rose; the firelight cast the leaping shadow of his tall, stately figure upon the wall behind him.

“I have been very patient,”—his voice was strong, full of emotion,—“but I have the dignity of the Republic to consider … and if I thought——”

He caught himself up. The Prince raised his eyes, and their expression goaded de Witt.

“What did Buat die for?” he asked.

William answered calmly—

“For selling the secrets of Holland to France.”

“For betraying his country, Highness; and he was of the Orange party. Madame Buat is one of their most active agents now. But I have had enough of it … if you dare——”

The Prince sprang lightly to his feet.

“—If you dare, Highness,” repeated De Witt sternly, “the Republic will know how to act.”

“Mynheer de Witt,” said William in a stifled voice, “what do you mean?”

“Have you dealings with your uncle Charles Stewart? Are you secretly tampering with the agents of France?” demanded the Grand Pensionary. “There is my meaning.”

He paused. The Prince did not alter the hard quiet of his manner, though his great eyes showed a tumult of feeling.

“What right have you to ask that of me?” he demanded.

The words were a challenge, as such M. de Witt answered them.

“Your father sought foreign aid when he attempted the liberties of Holland——”

Like a sword swiftly unsheathed the Prince’s passion slipped his control—

“I will not hear of my father from you, Mynheer,” he cried. “For what he did I have paid … and for your insults——” His words were checked in a fit of coughing that shook his frail frame, he had to support himself against the back of the chair. This evidence of the ill health that decided many doctors in declaring he could not live long instantly softened the noble heart of John de Witt, touched also by the Prince’s quick anger.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I had no right—I ask your pardon, Highness.”

William sank into his chair, pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to his lips; he still coughed a little.

“Forgive me,” he answered, quiet again, but breathing with difficulty. “I forgot myself.… I have taken so much,” he added, “I might well have taken that. But it is not often, Mynheer, that I fail to recognise your position and … mine.”

The words hurt M. de Witt.

“I would not be your master but your friend,” he said eagerly. “Trust me and I will do more for you than these ill-judged factions.…”

William looked round; his face was colourless, and he held himself as if exhausted.

“Mynheer,” he said, speaking with something of an effort, “I do not know why you think I am occupied in stirring up sedition in the State. You know how I spend every moment of my time; I have no opportunity nor—desire. I am your very good friend and the servant of Their Noble Mightinesses.… I have, obviously, no influence with the party that you speak of. As for my uncle and my cousin of France, they do not make me their confidant … not counting me, doubtless, of sufficient importance.”

John de Witt looked him in the eyes with a deep, questioning glance.

“Have I satisfied you, Mynheer?” asked the Prince courteously.

The Grand Pensionary could press no further. He was half baffled, half angered; yet he found himself remembering that this Prince, who was behaving so like a veteran diplomat, was in fact only a boy, often ill and lonely.

“I came with no suspicions,” he said. “Only to put before you, Highness, something of the state of the Republic and to ask your help——”

“If I can ever be of service I shall be glad,” answered William. He looked up, and added abruptly, “Mynheer de Witt, might Mynheer Cornelius Triglandt come back?—I would rather have him for my chaplain than any man I know.”

M. de Witt was taken by surprise, but he had his reply ready.

“M. Triglandt was removed from your person for the same reason as M. Zuylestein,” he said gently. “He hath an unruly tongue and a heart disloyal to the Republic. Their High Mightinesses could not allow his return. If you esteemed him, I am sorry.”

William was silent.

The Grand Pensionary glanced at the bronze clock on the mantelshelf.

“I have outstayed my time—I am due, Highness, at the Binnenhof.”

The Prince rose.

“Next time,” continued M. de Witt, “I will examine you in your studies. Till then I commend what I have said to your consideration.… Think of them always, Highness, as the words of a sincere friend.”

“I am grateful, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary went to the door, and there hesitated.

“Believe me,” he said, looking back, “in the matter of Mynheer Triglandt I would gladly pleasure you … it is the will of the States.”

William bent his head.

John de Witt opened the door in silence and was gone.

The Prince remained by the table; a long breath escaped him and a bright look shone under his heavy lids. He cried to himself in the words used by the great Philip to his ancestor—

“Not the States, but you! you!”

Then he sank into the chair again, resting his elbow on the table and his head in his hand, while he drew from his pocket the letter given him by Florent Van Mander. He looked at the writing and the seals, then replaced it in his waistcoat.

He coughed slightly and glanced towards the door which had closed on the Grand Pensionary.

“Not the States,” he repeated, “but you, Mynheer de Witt, you!”

CHAPTER IV
M. DE WITT’S SECRETARY

Florent Van Mander sat at his desk by the open window and looked out on to the garden of M. de Witt.

The mysterious, damp, and misty days of autumn had set in. Thin sea vapours blew from morning till night across the Hague; the sunshine was faint as if it came from a great distance.

No fire burnt in the library, but the secretary had quietly set the window open, heedless of the chilly air.

For M. de Witt was walking in the garden talking to his brother, M. Cornelius de Witt, Ruard of Putten, who had come up to-day from Dordt, and Florent was listening to their conversation as it came clearly through the tranquil stillness.

“If you do not send more troops, brother,” the Ruard was saying, “I think Zeeland will get beyond all management. Count Tilly would be the man to quiet them.”

“I cannot spare Tilly from the Hague,” answered the softer voice of the Grand Pensionary. “And I have written to the burgomaster of Middelburg.”

“You hold the reins too gently,” returned Cornelius de Witt. “I think the Prince is in touch with these agitators in Zeeland——”

“It is hardly possible … he is kept too close.…”

“You should keep him closer. Are you sure of those about him?”

“They are of mine own choice—even to his gentlemen.”

“Well,” said the Ruard grimly, “he may have corrupted them.”

Florent leant forward cautiously. The brothers had halted close to the window. The Grand Pensionary’s back was towards him, but he could see the fine, rugged face of the Ruard, frowning now, and shaded by the great black beaver he wore.

“I have his assurance of loyalty,” said John de Witt. “I do not think he is of a nature to be false … he is quiet——”

“Take care he be not as cunning as he is quiet.”

“I have no right to think it,” answered the Grand Pensionary.

There was impatience in his brother’s reply.

“You have always been too just … the time has gone past for concessions.…”

They moved on slowly; Van Mander could hear their footsteps on the gravel but not what they said.

He had had his dismissal for the day; probably M. de Witt thought he had already gone. He locked his desk and put on his hat and cloak, then softly shut the window.

Before he left the building he went upstairs to M. de Witt’s private cabinet to return some papers he had copied for M. Van den Bosch, the head secretary, who, in company with the two confidential clerks, M. Bacherus and M. Van Ouvenaller, always sat there.

Van Mander returned to the hall with a dislike of these busy, quiet, dry men so intent on serving their master—machines he called them, what could they ever hope to rise to?—and they had all the secrets of M. de Witt in their hands.

There would be a game worth playing supposing that he possessed the keys of those desks. But they never entrusted him with anything of importance—save yesterday when he had carried the red velvet bag——

His mind leapt back to the letter he had given the Prince. He stepped out of John de Witt’s pink brick house into the sea-mist that was increasing as the sun set, and turned in the direction of the Nieuwe Kerk which lay towards the gates.

The vapour rested lightly on the water of the Vyver, and clung to the yellowing chestnut trees that surrounded it; beyond rose the straight walls of the Binnenhof, dimly seen, looming darkly from the mist.

Florent crossed the empty Plaats. Before him the threatening lines of the blunt roof of the Gevangenpoort, the prison gate, seemed to spring from out the fast thickening fog as if they were shaped from dark clouds and had no foundation on the earth. One barred window showed in the gloomy structure, and above it the flag of the Republic glimpsed through the obscurity.

Florent passed under the low, deep arch and came out into the Buitenhof. The soldiers on duty here, the few passers-by, seemed unreal and remote, so wrapped about and mysterious were they rendered by the damp, encroaching mist.

Florent was impressed, subdued by the silent, all-pervading personality of the town wearing the sea-fog like a veil over her ancient glories—like a veil of mourning, maybe, for her coming downfall. All the splendour of the Seven Provinces, all their strength, their endurance, their simplicity, their heroism were symbolised in these buildings, rising staunch and heavy through the sad, dripping fog. The gables and turrets of the Hall of the Knights; the tourelles and pale brick of the Binnenhof, with the bright painted shutters faintly showing, and here and there a light gleaming at a window; and above all the great tower of the Groote Kerk rising through the fog that the sea, ever beating on the shores and dykes of Holland with a persistent and sinister purpose, sends rolling drearily over the land it cannot yet reclaim.

Florent traversed the courts of the Binnenhof, and entered the Spuistraat, where the street-lamps and the lights in the shops cast faint haloes on the mist; here he followed the canal that led to the Nieuwe Kerk.

Crossing the bridge, under which slow barges passed winding along the grey water, through the grey land towards Ryswysk, he circled the clumsy, grim church, and discovered behind it, at the corner of Bezemstraat, the Nieuwe Doelen.

There in the quiet, plain back parlour of the inn he found Hyacinthe St. Croix.

Florent greeted him with his habitual brevity and went to the fire. He was chilled, his garments damp; even here the mist had penetrated, and filled the room with a salt sense of wet and cold.

St. Croix ordered dinner and, leaning back, surveyed his company.

Florent looked up suddenly. The firelight stained his linen collar, his pale face, to ruddiness.

“I delivered your letter.”

The Frenchman answered, not allowing himself to show any satisfaction—

“I thought you would.”

Florent was silent a while, rubbing his hands together over the blaze.

“How do you hope to receive an answer?” he said at last.

“If the Prince wishes to send one he will contrive it.”

Florent started at that.

“We are quite safe here,” remarked St. Croix easily. “This is M. le Marquis’ house.”

“Ah!” Florent glanced round the small, neat room, with the herbs hanging from the beams, the blue-and-white pottery, the shining brass,—an inn room like a hundred others. “M. le Marquis does it very well,” he said.

“Naturally,” smiled St. Croix. “What was your opinion of the Prince?” he added.

Florent ignored the question.

“I was wondering,” he said slowly, “how the Prince could communicate with any one—he is kept marvellously close.”

St. Croix shrugged his shoulders.

“I said he would contrive,—I think he is as clever as M. de Witt.”

Florent reflected on the words he had heard the Grand Pensionary use that evening to his brother.

“Those about him are all of M. de Witt’s choosing,” he said.

“The Prince might win some—one of them.”

Florent looked up quickly.

“Do you imagine him the sort of man to win—devotion?”

“I do not know. What is your opinion?”

Florent smiled rather sourly.

“I suppose some would serve him from policy, because they saw a restoration,” he answered; “but he is greatly beloved in Holland.”

“He has done nothing to win the suffrage of the people.”

“No,” said Florent; “he has done nothing.”

“It is the name,” resumed St. Croix lightly, “and the prestige of the House of Orange.”

Supper was brought in, and more candles. Florent crossed to the window.

Outside the mist was rolling past like waves, white and curling. The sound of the struggling, large poles could be heard through it; the noise of the wet mast striking the wet deck as it was lowered to pass under the bridge, and the men’s voices, shouting to each other, hoarse, remote.

Florent glanced askance over his shoulder at St. Croix. A man who was despising him, no doubt, as one of a fallen race; anticipating the time when the King of France would be master of Holland—the dictator of Europe. He began to find that he hated St. Croix, and that he was angry with himself for being there, playing into the Frenchman’s hands.

He thought of the quiet, worn men in M. de Witt’s Cabinet whom he had, at the moment, so despised. Now he was ready to wish his hands as clean as theirs. He resented the look of insolent superiority he thought to read in the powdered face of Hyacinthe St. Croix.

But the Frenchman spoke pleasantly—

“Will you not come to dinner?”

Florent silently complied. He found that the little inn, supported by the pay of M. le Marquis de Pomponne, provided of the best; food and wine were both better than he was accustomed to. This further set him against St. Croix, who was buying him in this paltry way as surely as was William of Orange being bought by the power and wealth of France and England.

“What was in that letter I delivered?” he demanded suddenly.

Hyacinthe St. Croix gave answer with a fine appearance of frankness—

“You have heard of the feeling in Zeeland?—His Highness is its premier noble, and, now that he is in his eighteenth year, the people consider him of age—and desire him to take his seat in the Council there——”

“M. de Witt would never allow it.”

“Mon Dieu, no, M. de Witt would never allow it—but it is possible that Monseigneur the Prince might act without permission.”

“Ah!” said Florent. He leant back, his hand round his wineglass, his eyes fixed across the candles’ shine on the Frenchman’s face. “And M. le Marquis would help him in this?”

“Making of it a challenge, the glove thrown down,” assented Hyacinthe St. Croix. “It would be a bold move for His Highness to make. If he once outwits M. de Witt he opens his eyes for always, and there can be no more confidence between them; yet maybe he would hazard it——”

“Under the protection of France,” interrupted Florent.

“You wonder we think it worth while,” returned St. Croix quickly, “but there are many reasons.… This young man is His Majesty’s cousin, and M. de Louvois sees how good use may be made of him. He is already of some influence in the State, and his party grows.”

“M. de Pomponne is ready to help him to raise revolt in Middelburg?”

“Yes.”

“Is M. Temple in this?” asked Florent abruptly.

St. Croix smiled.

“He is like M. de Witt, hopelessly honest.”

Florent emptied his glass slowly.

“We have made overtures to the Princess of Orange, but she is old and cautious,” continued St. Croix. “Also to M. de Zuylestein and Prince John Maurice. The letter you passed to Monseigneur the Prince contained an offer on the part of M. le Marquis to connive at his escape to Middelburg.”

“How could it be done?” mused Florent.

“M. le Marquis could accomplish it—M. Van Ghent is away——”

Florent looked up sharply.

“Yes, he left on a visit to his estate in Guelders to-day. The Prince hath then thrown in his lot with you—” he added, “put himself under the protection of France?”

“Mon Dieu, what else is there for him to do?”

Florent pushed back his chair. He had eaten very little, nor did St. Croix press it, though he had dined well himself after an indifferent, easy fashion that nettled his guest.

“Ugh! this mist of yours,” shivered the Frenchman suddenly glancing about the room. “Nothing will keep it out—how much of it do you have?”

“I am new to the Hague, but there is plenty of it, until we get the frosts—then too, sometimes.”

St. Croix made a wry face.

“I would the Holy Virgin had placed my talents elsewhere. Here there is nothing wherewith to amuse one’s self save the contemplation of Dutch virtue and the effort to avoid rheumatism. How do you endure it, my friend?”

“By being Dutch,” answered Florent, gazing at him steadily. “You speak very plainly to me—I am Dutch.”

St. Croix laughed.

“You think me overbold. But I tell you this, my master is more powerful in the Seven Provinces than any Dutchman—as you are ambitious you had best not offend him.”

So, they threatened—they felt themselves strong enough for that.

“I have my own interests at heart,” commented Florent dryly, after a pause. “I see that the Orange party is the one to serve.… I shall serve it, knowing quite well, M. St. Croix, that it is another name for France.”

The Frenchman blinked his fair eyes.

“His Highness may be called the lever with which His Majesty will heave the United Provinces on to the map of France,” he remarked.

“You seem very sure of him,” said Florent, “and I believe that you are right. But … it is curious in all the discussions concerning this Prince, whose name we all use alike to serve our ends—among all the factions that clamour for William of Orange—is there never one to think of him as other than the tool of France? Does it never enter the thoughts of any that he might prove as honest as M. de Witt—as faithful to his country?”

“This is not an age of heroes,” smiled St. Croix; and added, half insolently, “Do you regret the fact, Monsieur?”

“M. de Witt is a hero.”

“M. de Witt is a saint and a fool,” replied the Frenchman. “And the Prince of Orange is neither.”

“Some must believe in him.…”

“As an instrument to gratify their ambition. M. Beverningh, M. de Zuylestein, and Prince John Maurice believe in him certainly—after that fashion.”

“I do not mean them—but these people in the street—Jacob Van der Graef——”

“A silly young man,” remarked St. Croix, lighting his pipe. “Yes, perhaps those people do believe in the glory of the old dynasty. But things have changed since the days of William the Taciturn; as I say, there are no heroes nowadays.”

Florent suddenly shrugged his shoulders.

“These are foolish matters for us to be discussing. You know where my interests lie, Monsieur; and,” he added, with a strange note of defiance, “you have pointed out that safety also rests with my silence. You need not fear that I should betray you to M. de Witt, or be over faithful to him. I, at least, am not a fool.”

“I think you are shrewd enough,” answered St. Croix, “and I have trusted you with a delicate matter. The way to your fortune is plain: for the present, stay where you are, keep quiet and docile to M. de Witt.”

Florent smiled.

“He is not difficult to fool,” he said grimly, “—M. de Witt.”

“No,” assented St. Croix, lazily watching his rings of smoke; “but he is difficult to lie to.”

Florent was silent; a dusky colour flushed into his cheeks.

“M. le Marquis,” continued the Frenchman, “hath told me that he finds the Grand Pensionary more troublesome to deal with than any clever rogue.”

“Yet he is simple, credulous,” said Florent. “See, in this matter of the Prince, how he trusts him.”

“He hath his own wisdom,” answered St. Croix; “but his day is over.”

He looked shrewdly at the young secretary, and added—

“I must bring you to speech of M. le Marquis.”

Florent made no answer; he rose.

“You are going?” asked St. Croix, leaning indolently on the table.

“I have some work to do—M. de Witt must not find me amiss.”

It was not the truth; the secretary’s duties ended when he quitted the Grand Pensionary’s house, but St. Croix accepted the excuse.

“You will hear from me again in a day or so,” he said. “The lodgings in the Kerkestraat will always find you?”

“Yes.”

Florent picked up his hat and cloak from the bench that ran round the wall and turned to leave.

“I shall keep my eyes and ears alert,” he said. “Good-night.”

“Good-night,” nodded St. Croix. “A sullen brute,” he thought as the door closed on Florent. “But these Dutchmen,”—he shrugged his shoulders,—“one must use them as one finds them.…”

Florent Van Mander cared nothing what impression he had made; his one desire was to get away, to be alone. He welcomed the cold white fog after the brightly lit parlour and the intolerable Frenchman sitting there over his wine. He hated it and all it symbolised; hated it so suddenly and so bitterly that he could not have stayed a second longer in the company of the man whom, for his own ends, he was serving.

Such emotions were quite new to him; he could not understand them. He had always despised people who allowed sentiment to interfere with ambition. One could not be great by following a falling cause.… What should it matter to him, a diplomat, whether he was paid by England or France or Holland, so he achieved his aim?

Fortune was not attained by sitting in M. de Witt’s Cabinet, like M. Van den Bosch; and the Grand Pensionary had not inspired Florent with any great enthusiasm or admiration. He had judged him coldly, seen failure ahead of him, and decided not to entangle his fortunes with the Republican Government. But nevertheless he felt this strange wrath, and distaste, against himself and what he did. It was as if something had suddenly touched and aroused feelings that lay so deep he did not know till now that he possessed them.

The Seven Provinces an appanage of France—they who had been the richest nation in Europe——

Florent checked his thoughts, wondering what had put into his mind—this folly.

Almost he imagined that the brief moment in which he had looked into the eyes of William of Orange had awakened him to this uneasy questioning. Yet that made double folly, since the Prince himself was but the tool of France, intriguing with de Pomponne—truckling to Louis.…

He had walked through the mist, along the Spuistraat, with no thought of his destination, but when he reached the Binnenhof he pulled himself up and stopped.

The lamps showing at intervals on their red posts displayed the fog in great pale circles, but their light did not penetrate far, and Florent realised that he began to take note of what he was doing in a thick, hurrying darkness of vapour no moon could pierce. The canal had ceased, and he knew that he must be by the Binnenhof. No one seemed abroad; the fog gave the effect of complete isolation.

Keeping close to the stone wall of the building, he made his way through the black arch of the Gevangenpoort on to the Plaats.

Here the closer-set street lights revealed the railings encircling the Vyver. Florent followed them a little way, then, gathering his cloak closely round him, paused and looked down on to the water, an abyss of fathomless darkness which, where the feeble rays of the lamp struck it, revealed billows of curling mist, which seemed to be sucked down into measureless depths of obscurity.

Florent leant against the railing, as completely shut away from the world as if in a secret chamber. All ordinary sights and sounds had receded, vanished; he could not even discern the lights in the Binnenhof or Maritshuis. His hair was wet his hat limp with damp; beads of moisture clung to his heavy frieze cloak, he could feel the water trickling under his collar, and there was a salt taste on his lips. He stood quite still watching the twisting, striving thickness of vapour disclosed by the beams of the lamp. Then suddenly a light was flashed over him, and a voice, conveying a slightly foreign accent, spoke in a low tone close beside him—

“Are you Mynheer Van Mander, clerk to M. de Witt?”

Florent lifted eyes startled from absorbed contemplation. He saw, through the curtain of the filmy mist, the figure of a man, wearing, like himself, a heavy mantle, and carrying a lantern.

“I am sure that you are,” the speaker continued. “I have been following you a considerable time.”

“For what purpose?” asked Florent.

The stranger, who had loomed up so quietly out of the fog, came a little nearer.

“You were at the Palace yesterday?”

Florent turned to face him.

“Yes.”

The other raised his lantern.

“I am Bromley,” he said simply,—“Matthew Bromley, the Prince’s gentleman, and I have come to give you the answer to the letter that you delivered to His Highness.”

Florent bent his brows on him. As far as he could see anything he saw a tall man with a fair, handsome face showing under the broad-brimmed hat.

“Will you hand this to the person who entrusted you to deliver that letter?”

Florent took the packet held out to him.

“If His Highness has servants as devoted as you appear, Mynheer,” he said, “you might have conveyed the letter in the first instance.”

And he remembered how St. Croix had lamented that he had now no ally in the Prince’s household.

“The paper is unsealed,” answered Matthew Bromley, “and I think it is His Highness’ wish that you read it.”

“Read it!” echoed Florent.

The mist seemed to be lifting, blowing in long trails, rapidly, to extinction. The Prince’s gentleman hung his lantern on the fence.

“You can read it here and now,” he said.

Florent glanced up from the still folded paper.

“You are English?”

“Yes, I am English,” answered Bromley.

Florent gazed at him keenly.

“You know something of the Prince’s affairs,—do you know why he wishes to make a confidant of me? Why I am to read this?”

Their voices were low and guarded; between them hurried the long veils of fog, blurring the street-lamp and the light of the lantern, in which their figures loomed indistinctly.

“You were aware what M. de Pomponne’s message contained?”

“Yes.”

“Therefore the Prince wishes you to know his answer.”

The lights in the Binnenhof, in the Maritshuis, began to be visible; sparks of yellow showed, too, in the windows of the houses in the Kneuterdyk Avenue; a cold wind was rising. Florent shivered; with chilled, damp fingers he took the paper from its cover and, bending towards the light, looked at it. The signature caught his eye first.

“This is M. de Pomponne’s letter!” he cried.

“It is also the Prince’s answer,” returned Mr. Bromley. “You may show it to M. de Witt—if you will.”

A swift excitement shook Florent.

“Then … what dealings has he—the Prince—with France?”

“You may imagine—he returns M. de Pomponne’s letter.”

“He is subservient to M. de Witt—he will not go to Middelburg——?”

“He will do nothing under the protection of M. de Pomponne.”

The gentle radiance of a young moon conquered the vanishing mist. Florent saw the shapes of the trees on the Vyverberg, the outlines of the Binnenhof, and the tourelles of the Gevangenpoort rising against a clear sky.

“This is a rebuke to me,” he said.

“You may take it so,” replied Mr. Bromley.

“I am not in the pay of the French,” said Florent, instantly aware this man could ruin him with his master, “though I suppose the Prince thinks so,—I work for my own ends, serving no party,” he added defiantly.

“The Prince has not thought of you at all, Mynheer, save to desire you to know he hath no secret dealings with M. de Pomponne. You will return that letter?”

“Yes,” said Florent, concealing it. He thought, grimly, that he had no choice.

“Then, good-night, Mynheer.” Mr. Bromley saluted gravely, took his now useless lantern from the fence and extinguished it.

Florent’s pulses were beating quickly; he was bewildered, confounded. There were many things he longed to ask the Prince’s gentleman, and not one that he could bring over his tongue. He stood foolishly watching Mr. Bromley disappear through the arch of the Gevangenpoort.

What game was the Prince playing? Was this a pose to deceive him, the secretary of M. de Witt, or did William really prefer the Grand Pensionary for a master rather than France?

Or perhaps he is merely timid, reflected Florent, crushing scornfully down the rush of pride and unreasonable exaltation he had sustained at the wild idea that the Prince was actually spurning M. de Pomponne.

He stared at the dark, tranquil waters of the Vyver, revealed now in the faint moonshine.

A boy, he sneered to himself, would he possess the wit and courage to undertake unaided this flight to Middelburg? No, he had always shown caution—he would remain under the wing of M. de Witt.

Yet Florent found himself pondering over the devotion of Matthew Bromley to his master—Bromley also had once been M. de Witt’s man.

CHAPTER V
THE CHALLENGE

A bar of sunshine fell across the quiet room in the Binnenhof, but it did not touch John de Witt, from head to foot he was in shadow.

The French Ambassador had just left him—a duel of words, an exchange of courtesies; through the formalities one sentence of de Pomponne had leapt.

“If the Prince of Orange gave the signal for a restoration … what would rise to answer it?”

“He will never give that signal,” de Witt had answered, and he believed it.

Yet strange it was for him, First Minister of a Republic almost his creation, to reflect upon this fact—the people of that Republic clamoured for the heir of the House that had threatened to set its heel on them.

He moved half restlessly in his chair. If William were indeed working secretly to undermine him he might find his labour of twenty years gone for nothing, and live yet to see his country under foreign dominion.

He rose and went to the window. The Hall of the Knights showed its painted and pointed shutters against a faint blue sky; the trees in the courtyard of the Binnenhof were shedding their leaves, caught by the wind and whirled in eddies that rose a little way then sank again to the ground.

The sunlight fell now directly on the face of John de Witt. It revealed how grey he was growing round the temples, how weary and lined were his eyes.

He was still standing by the window when a tall soldier entered.

“Ah, M. de Montbas!” the Grand Pensionary turned. “I desired to see you about these riots in Zeeland and Groningen.”

“You wished me to go there, Mynheer, I think your letter said.”

The speaker was a sallow, sickly looking man, with lank hair and dark, unhappy eyes.

“To Groningen—yes.”

M. de Witt returned to his seat in the shadow.

“I fear that we have been too lenient,” he continued; “the Government must make some show of strength.”

“That is only wise,” answered the Count de Montbas; “and should, Mynheer, have been done before.”

“It has never been my policy to use force where persuasion might prevail,” said M. de Witt. “When one is adamant in great things one may be careless in little,—these rioters are mostly ignorant people——”

“They are encouraged by the Prince of Orange,” put in de Montbas quickly.

“There I think you are wrong,” returned the Grand Pensionary quietly. He knew that ill feeling existed between the House of Orange and M. de Montbas, whose father, an exiled Frenchman, had offered his services to the late Stadtholder only to have them refused.

M. de Montbas gave a half-nervous laugh.

“You are too confident, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary ignored the remark and touched a bell upon his table.

“I will read you the report of the disturbances in Zeeland and Goeree,” he said.

It was Florent Van Mander who entered with the papers. M. de Witt bade him stay, and he went quietly to the back of the room and waited, observing, with cruel precision, the two men before him.

He had heard a good deal of M. de Montbas, one of the staunchest republicans in the army of the United Provinces, and the man whom the Grand Pensionary always put forward in opposition to the Prince of Orange as candidate for the post of Captain General, a position that he now, at least nominally, held.

Florent saw a dark, gloomy-featured man, stooping in the shoulders and awkward in bearing, yet with a certain elegance of manner; a man who talked in a nervous and disjointed fashion, and fidgeted with the tassels on his military gloves.

His black-and-silver uniform, with the embroidered baldric and heavy sword, sat badly on him. Florent found him neither attractive nor calculated to inspire confidence, and wondered at the Grand Pensionary’s choice of a general. Glancing away, he studied M. de Witt himself.

Behind the desk where the Grand Pensionary sat hung a dark yet bright picture of fruit and flowers, and against this the brown hair and pale face of John de Witt were thrown into relief.

Pale certainly, even above his white, falling collar and black dress, but of a strength not to be mistaken and a power not to be ignored.

Florent listened to the conversation between these two with an expressionless face but inward interest, for they had begun to discuss the Prince of Orange.

“He is not at the Hague to-day,” M. de Witt was saying. “M. Van Ghent is in Guelders, and His Highness wrote to me requesting permission to try some hawks and hounds sent him by the King of England—for that purpose he hath gone to Breda.”

“What quarry does he hunt at Breda?” asked M. de Montbas, and it seemed to Florent that he spoke like a man afraid.

The Grand Pensionary smiled.

“What should he hunt but herons, Mynheer?—you are too suspicious.”

“By Heaven! I would not have let him go.”

M. de Witt turned over the reports brought him by Florent.

“He hath gone, Count, nor will he return till to-night. To-morrow I will, as you urge me, again see him on the subject of these disturbances.”

“And also concerning his party in the Assembly,” added Montbas, “who hamper us at every step——”

“He has no power with them.”

“I do not know—they use his name——”

“And would do that whether he would or no——”

“And the Princess Amalia,” interrupted M. de Montbas. “Look to her—she is ever intriguing.”

“I know; yet it is to little purpose,—at heart she is afraid of us.”

“But she will serve her grandson’s cause—and by any means—if she have but the chance.”

“I might see her also,” mused M. de Witt. “I know she is timid——”

The door was opened, and M. Van Ouvenaller took a few steps into the room.

“A man hath just ridden up to the Binnenhof, Mynheer, who earnestly desires to see you,” said the secretary. “His name is Captain Van Haren, of the garrison at Vlaardingen.”

The Grand Pensionary did not know the name.

“Nay, I cannot see him now,” he answered, “his business must wait; nor should you have broken in upon us with this, Van Ouvenaller.”

“Mynheer,” answered the secretary, colouring, “this man says he bears a letter from the Prince of Orange.”

“From the Prince of Orange!” cried de Montbas, rising.

“I beseech you,” breathed John de Witt, giving him a quick look; then he turned to Van Ouvenaller, “Admit this Captain Van Haren.”

Florent felt his pulses throbbing, his blood stirring. He advanced a little farther into the room, glancing furtively from the agitated countenance of the Count de Montbas to the composed features of John de Witt.

Captain Van Haren entered, a stout and stolid soldier, muddy and wet.

“You are unknown to me, Mynheer,” said the Grand Pensionary quietly.

“I am the commander of the garrison at Vlaardingen on the Maas, Mynheer. His Highness the Prince of Orange rested there this morning—he dispatched me with this letter.”

“The Prince at Vlaardingen!” cried M. de Montbas, and rapidly flushed and rapidly paled again.

For the second time the Grand Pensionary checked him with a look, holding out his hand for the letter. Without lowering his eyes to it he spoke—

“What took the Prince to Vlaardingen?”

“He was on his way to Bergen-op-Zoom they said, Mynheer.”

“He goes to Zeeland?” questioned de Witt, and his eyes narrowed.

“I think so, Mynheer.”

A fierce exclamation broke from de Montbas, but John de Witt in silence tore the seals of the letter.

It was headed—

“Vlaardingen on the Maas

“11th Sept. 1668

“Mynheer,” it ran, “as I am now arrived at an age when I can claim the heritage of my House, I am proceeding, on the invitation of Zeeland, to Middelburg, there to take my seat as premier noble of that State. Her Highness the Princess of Orange, and His Serene Highness the Elector of Brandenburg, have been pleased to declare me of age. I did not consider it necessary to request permission of Their High Mightinesses before I took this journey. Upon my return to the Hague I shall be desirous of personally conveying to you my affection and duty,

“William, Prince of Orange.”

John de Witt laid the letter down. Florent thought that his face, his whole bearing, had wonderfully changed.

“His Highness was accompanied?” he asked.

“By his household and a company of young nobles.”

“He hath gone to rouse Zeeland!” cried M. de Montbas.

De Witt handed him the Prince’s letter.

“You should not have allowed His Highness to leave Vlaardingen,” he said sternly to Captain Van Haren. “Not he, but Their High Mightinesses are your masters.”

“His Highness told me that he went to join Prince John Maurice,” answered the soldier. “I did not know that it was against the wishes of Their High Mightinesses.”

“Against their wishes and mine,” said John de Witt. “This is an act of rebellion on the Prince’s part—we have been too lenient. Get back to Vlaardingen, Captain Van Haren, and be careful how ye serve the States.”

To Florent, eagerly watching, was revealed a new phase of the Grand Pensionary; he saw him moved if composed, roused and dominant. The gentleness that might have covered weakness was shown to be but the cloak of undaunted strength. He held his head high, and the prominence of his jaw was emphasised by the set of the mouth.

“Get back to Vlaardingen,” he repeated; “and remember that Their High Mightinesses will endure no riots nor disturbances in the name of this most presumptuous young man.”

The Captain saluted and withdrew. As the door closed on him M. de Montbas looked up from the letter fluttering in his hand.

“This is a challenge,” he said.

John de Witt’s brows were contracted.

“Yea, I think so.”

“We have been fooled!” cried M. de Montbas bitterly; “fooled by this docile, sickly boy!” He rose and dashed the letter on to the table. “Where is your policy of concession now? What of this good citizen you were making out of a tyrant’s son?”

“I have been deceived,” answered the Grand Pensionary sternly. “As ye say, fooled!” His eyes expressed an anger that Florent would not have believed them capable of, so utterly did it contradict their usual look of stately kindliness. “Who would have thought that there were such guile and deception in this young man!”

“I have warned you,” said M. de Montbas. “He was over quiet; and never could I imagine that one of his House would be content with a subservient position.”

“My eyes are opened now!” De Witt rose. “Perhaps it is better that he and I should meet without disguise. Since he hath rejected my friendship it is well that I should know it.”

He drew a quick breath, and for a moment it seemed as if the old hatred fought against so long, carefully concealed and never acted upon, was asserting itself,—the hatred of the stern republican for princely insolence and tyranny; the hatred of the son of Jacob de Witt, the innocent prisoner of Loevenstein, for the son of the man who had flung him there.

M. de Montbas saw the expression, and read it by the light of his own bitter dislike to William of Orange.

“You have been acting on your principles instead of your instincts,” he said. “In your heart you never trusted him.”

“I have ever done him justice,” answered John de Witt, “and treated him in such a manner that this act of his, this contemptuous blow in the face of my authority, is base ingratitude.”

“You never loved him,” insisted M. de Montbas in the same kind of trembling, nervous anger. “Though ye have had the tutoring of him, ye never loved him.”

The Grand Pensionary looked straightly into the soldier’s face.

“Nay, I never loved him,” he said. “It was not possible.”

“But you trusted him.”

“It is my habit,” returned M. de Witt proudly, “to trust those with whom I deal.”

M. de Montbas shrugged his shoulders impatiently. To Florent’s covertly observant eyes he seemed in an agitation bordering on fear.

“To join Prince John Maurice at Breda!” ejaculated the Grand Pensionary. “It is a scheme concocted with the Princess Dowager—the Prince was recently at Cleves. Who, besides, would he have with him?—Heenvliet, Renswoude, and Boreel, I thought that I could have trusted them; but Bromley and Van Odyk, I had intention of replacing … they are at the bottom of this——”

“The Prince, and no one but the Prince, is at the bottom of this!” cried M. de Montbas.

The Grand Pensionary gave a stern smile.

“You think I have been weak; I have only acted as I considered right, and as I should act again. Maybe even yet I may by persuasion overcome this youth’s worldly ambition. If not, we, the States and I, are capable of sterner measures.”

“They should have been used before.” M. de Montbas suppressed his impatient voice. “Where you have once been so utterly deceived, can you ever confide again? If William of Orange will do this, what will he not do?” The speaker’s sallow face flushed with the energy of his feelings. “France and England, who neglected him when he was nothing in the State, begin to court him now. Why should he not revenge himself on the party that deprived him of his inheritance by intriguing for sovereign power with our enemies——”

“M. de Montbas, you go too far,” interrupted the Grand Pensionary. “We have neither right nor reason to suspect the Prince of these deep designs. He is a boy, misled by his ambitions.”

“This is clever work for a boy,” replied the Count, with a sour smile. “He has outwitted you, Mynheer.”

“That is no shame to me.”

“It may be a danger to the State,” was the swift answer.

“You blame me,” said the Grand Pensionary quietly. “I do not doubt that, on all sides, I shall receive censure.”

He moved slowly back to his desk, and M. de Montbas sprang from his chair.

“Ay! You have been wrong from the first! You cannot tame an eagle with sugar and smiles; if you want to keep him you cage him, otherwise he will fly as soon as he is able, though he may have taken your friendliness while his wings were growing.”

“I did what I would do again,” repeated John de Witt firmly, and without bitterness.

He picked up the Prince’s letter and looked at it again.

“The Princess and the Elector, his guardians, declare him of age—it follows he will be claiming a seat in the Council of State,” he remarked.

“Zeeland will demand the restoration of the Stadtholdership,” added M. de Montbas.

“Maybe.” De Witt spoke thoughtfully. “There will be a fierce fight; perhaps I could gain the Princess, at least I will see her.”

He glanced at the blue china clock on the mantelshelf.

“The Assembly is now sitting,” he remarked.

“We have not yet decided the question of these riots,” said M. de Montbas.

“This letter puts a different complexion on the matter.” M. de Witt folded and placed it in his pocket as he spoke. “I must set the whole affair before the Assembly.” He turned to the secretary, “Will you lock up those papers in my desk, Mynheer Van Mander?”

“Yes, Mynheer.”

Without further speech the Grand Pensionary and M. de Montbas left the room.

Florent did as he had been directed. With a mechanical intelligence of the hands, leaving free the excited workings of his brain upon what he had just heard and the meaning of it, he put away the papers, neatly, in their various drawers.

He was about, in the same absorbed fashion, to lock the desk, when a sudden, unexpected thought held him still.

What were these papers? Without a doubt valuable to Hyacinthe St. Croix—to William of Orange.

And they lay there before him, at his mercy to read, to copy—to steal.

Prudence no longer restrained him. In the last half-hour he had decided to remain not another day in the service of M. de Witt. He had nothing to gain from the Grand Pensionary.

Yet he stood in the hazy sunlight hesitating, the key in his hand and the open desk before him.

St. Croix would pay him well, but he was not thinking of St. Croix.

What would the Prince give for the contents of the private desk of M. de Witt?

Florent did not want money—but he craved to stand for something—to be of value—to merit consideration in the eyes of this young man who had suddenly unfurled the Orange standard.

And what had he to offer but the poor services any clerk could give?

Still he hesitated; but that same recollection that filled him with hot desire to serve William of Orange held him back. Thinking of William of Orange, he could not do it.

He locked the desk and went into the outer room to give the key to M. Van den Bosch.

The clerks of M. de Witt were discussing the situation in a subdued agitation. Florent tendered the key, half defiantly.

“Are you leaving?” asked M. Bacherus, with a look of surprise on his wrinkled face.

Florent answered briefly, and took his hat and cloak down from a peg.

“What do you think of this news from Zeeland?” asked Van Ouvenaller, adjusting his spectacles.

“I am sorry for M. de Witt,” returned Florent dryly.

Van Ouvenaller rubbed his chin.

“These are troublesome times,” he remarked gloomily.

Florent left the room and the Binnenhof.

The Hague was already alive with excitement; the streets seethed with unrest. The daring of the Prince’s exploit made it almost unbelievable; this and that rumour were spread and contradicted. The burgher companies were out, and by the time Florent had reached the Plaats it was announced that M. de Montbas was in council with the States, and that a message had been sent to Hellevoetsluis, where De Ruyter lay with the Fleet. These messages, intended to quiet the people’s fears of a coup d’état on the part of the Prince, were received with derision. There were more orange favours worn than white ones, and more satisfaction than anger expressed at the success of the Prince’s enterprise.

In the Kneuterdyk Avenue, close to M. de Witt’s house, Florent met St. Croix.

They exchanged hasty greeting in the crowd.

“You have heard the news?” the Frenchman smiled.

“You received the returned packet?” retorted Florent.

“Yes; the Prince is prudent to refuse to enter into negotiations that are bound to be detected.”

Such was not Florent’s reading of the action.

“Will you come to my lodgings to-night?” he asked. “We cannot talk here.”

“To-night——? Agreed.”

They parted.

Florent smiled rather grimly to himself. St. Croix would find his new prey flown, since M. de Witt’s secretary had decided not to remain another hour in the Hague.

CHAPTER VI
MIDDELBURG

“Crowds came in on all sides, the streets were nearly impassable; windows, roofs, even masts and trees, black with spectators. The Abbey was so full of people in carriages and on foot that it was hardly possible to reach the Prince’s apartments. Nor must I forget to tell Your Highness that during the two hours the Prince stood at the window the civic militia fired salutes in his honour,—and they are still sending up fireworks from the Stadhuis. His Highness reached here yesterday at three o’clock; his yacht sailed through shipping dressed with flags, and these vessels answered his salutes with a triple discharge of their guns. The Magistrates of the town had come down to the quay to receive him; the burgher companies were under arms. He entered a coach and six and was conducted to the Abbey, where the Deputies of the State came to congratulate him. The councillor pensionary made a speech to him in their name, and the different representatives of the provincial government followed his example. To-morrow His Highness is to be conducted to the Hall of Assembly. The loyalty of the people is beyond a question.

“Prince John Maurice of Nassau hath remained at Bergen-op-Zoom, under pretence of illness, fearing to compromise himself in the eyes of the Government by sharing in this dangerous enterprise; but Your Highness need have no fear, the prudence of the Prince balances his youth, and he would have reason to complain of me if I did not say that his management of this affair has shown a wisdom far beyond his years.”

Lange Jan struck, after a prelude of dancing bells, the hour of two, and Mr. Bromley laid down his pen and looked round.

His own elation and excitement had found pleasurable vent in this letter to the Princess Dowager, which he wrote, by the Prince’s orders, to give some account of the reception in Middelburg. He had sat over it longer than he had thought; it was with some slight shock that he realised it to be deep into the night.

Middelburg was still at last. The crowds had departed from the courtyard of the Abbey, the bells had ceased to ring, the military salutes were hushed; the town lay silent under the September stars.

Mr. Bromley went to the small, pointed, Gothic window of his chamber and looked out.

Opposite, clear in the moonlight rose the three, pointed towers of the southern side of the Abbey; the windows projecting from the sloping roof threw distinct shadows, and the vanes on the three turrets turned slowly in the wind. Through the low-arched, dark gate, above which could be seen, carved deep in the stone, the Zeeland Lion rising from the waves, was the figure of the sentry walking up and down, the moonlight glittering on his halbert.

The courtyard was filled with trees, now almost bare of their leaves, that cast a dark tracery of shadow on the ground with their softly stirring branches.

Again the melancholy little air rang out, and Lange Jan struck a quarter past the hour. The sound was close and loud, since the Groote Kerk adjoined the Abbey wing and the tall clock-tower rose immediately behind Mr. Bromley’s room, a small chamber communicating with the Prince’s apartments.

These chimes, that at every quarter of an hour were ringing out over the Seven Provinces day and night, had a curious, almost uncanny meaning for the Englishman. He had never become used to them. Often, at the Hague, he would wake up to hear the chimes of the Groote Kerk, and always with a start; so loud, so insistent, yet so melancholy were these old bells, ringing out dutifully, as their long-dead makers had bidden them, as every fifteen minutes passed.

So had they rung here in Middelburg when the Counties of Holland stepped this Abbey; so did they ring in the sunny spaces of the afternoon above a silent town; and so in the utter stillness of the night their mournful carillon played unheeding the notes of warning, of sadness, of remembrance.

Mr. Bromley took his heavy brass candlestick from the table and placed it on the mantelshelf, put away his unfinished letter, and was about to undress when a soft knock upon the door interrupted him.

He opened it. M. Heenvliet, the Prince’s first gentleman-in-waiting, stood without, holding a candle. He was fully dressed.

“The Messenger from the Hague has arrived. I and M. Van Odyk were not yet abed, so saw him come up to the Abbey; M. Van Odyk thinks His Highness should see the letters now.”

“From whom are they?” asked Mr. Bromley.

“The Princess and M. de Witt.”

“They can wait till the morning—the Prince sleeps so ill.”

“M. Van Odyk thought he should have time to consider them before he makes his speech in the Assembly to-morrow.”

“Is every one else abed?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I will go rouse His Highness,” said Mr. Bromley reluctantly. “Will you desire M. Van Odyk to come up with the letters?”

M. Heenvliet withdrew, and Mr. Bromley crossed to the adjoining chamber, a long, low apartment that the fitful light of his single candle showed hung with tapestries and to be plainly but richly furnished.

Middelburg Abbey had been the palace of the Prince’s ancestors, and still retained some of the splendour of those days.

At the farther end of this room was the door leading into the Prince’s bedroom. Mr. Bromley hesitated; he was inclined to think the letters might have waited. William slept badly at best, and to-night must need all that he could get of rest. There was no intermediary whom Mr. Bromley might consult since the Prince had left both valet and page at the Hague, having, indeed, no excuse for taking servants on a hunting expedition.

He knocked gently and received no answer.

Lange Jan shook his chimes into the night again. There was a pause as his melody died away, then Mr. Bromley opened the door.

The candle revealed a handsome, square room with a painted, beamed ceiling, walls hung with stamped leather, and two windows, unshuttered and set open. The moonlight streamed through and lay along the polished floor.

The bed, with its plain but richly worked hangings, stood fronting the window.

On a table at the foot were a silver candlestick, a couple of small books, and a watch lying on a lace handkerchief.

Across the high-backed, wooden chair beside the bed were spread the Prince’s green velvet riding-coat, his black sash, his gloves and Mechlin cravat, and hanging on the wall above his beaver with the long ostrich plume.

Another chair, set in a corner, and covered with a high Gothic canopy, held across its carved arms the Prince’s sword-belt and the piled up addresses presented to him yesterday.

Mr. Bromley paused. He could hear the regular, rather laboured, breathing of the sleeper, and no other sound.

He went up to the bed, and, shading the candle, looked down.

The curtains were gathered back within their cords, and revealed the Prince lying on his side, his head raised by a pile of pillows, his hands outside the coverlet.

Any one not knowing him so well as did Mr. Bromley would have been startled by the extreme pallor of the face, which had an almost deathlike look in contrast with the tumbled auburn hair. His whole appearance was more that of one in a swoon than in normal sleep, save that his lips were closed firmly and his fine nostrils quivered with his breathing.

“Your Highness,” said Mr. Bromley, and moved his hand so that the candlelight flashed over the bed.

William gave a little sigh and opened his great eyes.

“Is that you, Bromley?”

“Yes, Sir, it is I.”

The Prince sat up, in a moment alert and composed. It was wonderful how his eyes gave life and animation to his pale and frail appearance. The look of great delicacy so noticeable in his sleep seemed hardly there when his brilliant glance dominated his face.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A Messenger from the Hague, Highness, with letters.”

“They could have waited till the morning,” answered William fretfully.

“One is from M. de Witt.”

“Still, it could have stayed. Ye need not have roused me for a message from M. de Witt.”

“Another is from the Princess Dowager.”

The Prince pushed the heavy hair back from his forehead.

“She is a silly old woman,” he declared, “and a letter from her does not interest me at all.”

Mr. Bromley, who had an unconfessed liking for the Princess, ventured to answer—

“Her Highness hath been under great anxiety as to your safety, Sir.”

“Oh, pshaw!” returned William. “She hath made her peace with the Republic by now. Who suggested waking me?”

“M. Van Odyk, Highness; he is coming up. He thought you would wish to consider these letters at once.”

“M. Van Odyk sometimes exceeds his duty,” remarked the Prince calmly. “And nothing any one can write or say will cause me to alter my intentions. I wish you would put that candle down, Bromley, it is flickering horribly.”

Mr. Bromley obeyed.

“It is caused by the open windows, Highness,” he answered. “No candle will burn straight in this draught.”

“Close them,” said the Prince petulantly.

Mr. Bromley again obeyed, forbearing to comment on the fact that the room was chilled with the night air, for he knew that the Prince could not sleep, or indeed hardly breathe, with the windows shut.

William leant back against the head of the bed; his lawn shirt, the sheets, pillows, and his face were turned to the same ivory hue in the candlelight.

“Why were you not abed, Bromley?” he asked.

“I was writing to the Princess, Highness.”

“Did you say Prince John Maurice had stayed at Bergen-op-Zoom?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“He will have told the Princess himself,” remarked William. “Being by now recovered of his sickness,” he added dryly.

“Shall I see if M. Van Odyk hath returned?” asked Mr. Bromley.

“Bring him here,” commanded William briefly.

The Englishman returned in the dark to his room, and reached it as M. Van Odyk appeared at the door.

“The Prince is awake and will see you—but he was not over pleased to be roused.”

“The matter is important,” answered M. Van Odyk.

Mr. Bromley had no more to say. William Van Odyk, rich, a connection of the House of Orange, clever, son of the man who was once the most trusted adviser of the Prince’s mother, had perhaps as much of William of Orange’s confidence as he ever bestowed on any one; for those placed about the Prince were not of his own choosing, he had always been too restricted to be able to find advisers or confidants. His grandmother he had never forgiven for her overtures to the republican party, and such men as he had given his rare friendship to, Cornelius Triglandt, the Lord of Zuylestein, and William Bentinck, had been removed from him by M. de Witt.

The few who had followed him to Middelburg he tolerated. He had no great trust in them, but relied on his own genius for command to make these, or any others, subservient to him.

When Mr. Bromley returned with M. Van Odyk to the Prince’s chamber, they found him half dressed and seated at the table at the foot of his bed snuffing the candle.

He looked up as they entered, and smiled with his eyes.

“Bromley,” he said, “I have absolutely no clothes at all—and those we begged from Prince John Maurice,” he added, with a touch of humour, “are so utterly too large.”

Mr. Bromley was compunctious.

“I am sorry, Highness—it was forgotten——”

“I can procure you anything you wish in the town to-morrow Highness,” interrupted M. Van Odyk.

“Nay, it is no matter,” answered the Prince, “only to-night I should have been grateful to the States of Zeeland for a dressing-gown. Now, where are these letters, Mynheer?”

M. Van Odyk laid them on the table, and Mr. Bromley withdrew.

The Prince picked up the letter from M. de Witt and opened it, bending closer to the candle.

William Van Odyk, Lord of Beverwaert, handsome, gay, worldly, a frivolous youth behind him and no ambitions ahead beyond the pleasure of an adventure, stood in the window embrasure and observed him curiously. So slight a boy to have thrown down this bold challenge to the power whom he regarded as a usurper, thereby destroying at a blow the policy of conciliation John de Witt had pursued so unflinchingly for eighteen years. But William of Orange had been pursuing his policy almost as long. A diplomat from his cradle, he had affected a resignation to his position that the Grand Pensionary had never doubted, and that the Lord of Beverwaert himself had been deceived in until within the last two years.

He recalled now, as he watched the Prince read his letter, with what interest he had followed William’s behaviour in the hands of the republican party. How he and other partisans of the House of Orange had had their hopes half crushed by the Prince’s taciturn gravity and natural reserve, which made it impossible to guess his real designs.

He had grown up in an atmosphere of adversity, been educated in a school of distrust; and the constant necessity he was under of concealing his passions had made him, while yet a child, an adept in dissimulation.

He had never made the slightest attempt to gain the affection or confidence of the faction always loyally supporting his House. He had neither the virtues nor the vices that are loved by the crowd; his life was austere, his tastes sober, he was rarely seen and always silent. Van Odyk was thinking now how little he really knew of him. Twice this boy’s age, and man of the world as he was, he had never drawn more from the Prince than his now almost public intention to claim the inheritance of his family.

The Lord of Beverwaert brought energy, talents, and goodwill to the cause, but little confidence. Of the mighty, almost regal, power that had once belonged to the House of Orange, nothing remained to this young man but the renown of his ancestors, and what force, courage, or strength he might find in himself.

William Van Odyk wondered, and fixed his pleasant blue eyes in such an intent fashion on the Prince that the latter looked up and glanced at him keenly.

“M. de Witt writes at length,” he said, and laid the letter down.

“To what purpose does he write?” asked the Lord of Beverwaert.

William motioned to the chair on the other side of the table.

“Will you not sit, Mynheer?”

Van Odyk took his place opposite to the Prince, and the solitary candle that illuminated them both showed a striking contrast in their persons: the Lord of Beverwaert, florid, fair, his gallant good looks displayed to advantage by his handsome red uniform, his gold baldric and bullion-fringed sash, tall, stoutly built, bearing every sign of easy, pleasant living, with eyes slightly dissipated, and a mouth a little full and soft in contour; the Prince, delicate, and even weakly, in appearance, his green coat flung on carelessly over his laced shirt, wearing riding-breeches and dusty top-boots, drooping a little as he sat with an air of weariness and gravity at variance with his years, yet conveying with every movement the charm of youth and an unconscious aristocratic grace, a precocious maturity stamped on his proud and composed features, yet showing in his brilliant eyes the fire of youthful blood and the energy of a haughty race.

He tore open the other letter, glanced over it and put it down.

“M. de Witt has seen the Princess,” he said. “She is, of course, frightened——”

“For your safety, Highness?”

“For her own share in this affair; flattered too, I think, by M. de Witt’s overtures. She never could resist tampering with the Republic—she has always injured me with her intrigues,” he added, with feeling.

“And M. de Witt?”

“He bids me take care what I say to the States of Zeeland, warns me that he withdraws his promise with regard to the Council of State—that he will, in fact, do all in his power to prevent my election, and that since I have proved myself his enemy he cannot treat me as his friend. There is a great deal more, very worthy matter, but that is the pith of it.”

He took up his grandmother’s letter.

“Her Highness would keep on good terms with M. de Witt. She advises me to say as little as possible here, and to return as quietly as may be.…”

“What do you think of this advice?” asked M. Van Odyk.

William gave him a quick, keen glance.

“Do you imagine that it could make any difference?”

“To your intentions, Highness?”

“Yes.”

“I think it will not, Highness,” smiled the Lord of Beverwaert.

“I shall speak in the Assembly as I intended to speak,” said the Prince composedly.

“Yet it would be worth a little prudence to secure the good graces of M. de Witt.”

The Prince’s eyes flickered over him at this in a manner conveying that M. Van Odyk had but a small share of William’s confidence or esteem.

“I have never lacked caution,” he said quietly; “and you know, Mynheer, that I had to forego M. de Witt’s good graces when I undertook this journey.”

“I know; but now the thing is done, you can excuse yourself——”

William interrupted.

“Mynheer, what use are the good graces of M. de Witt to me?”

The Lord of Beverwaert shrugged his shoulders.

“He represents the United Provinces.”

The Prince pushed back the heavy, reddish curls that gave such a marked character to his face.

“The United Provinces and I understand each other,” he answered impatiently, “without the intervention of M. de Witt.”

Then, seeing the look in M. Van Odyk’s face, he blushed with vexation lest he had been betrayed for once into an expression too outspoken.

“I shall offend M. de Witt no further than I can help,” he added, his manner instantly restrained again. He looked down at the Princess’s letter that he still held.

“We will return to the Hague to-morrow, Mynheer, and I will see Her Highness before she becomes enmeshed in intrigues.”

“You have not much confidence in Her Highness,” remarked the Lord of Beverwaert.

“What can one expect from a woman?” returned the Prince in a tone of quiet but boundless contempt. “I thank God I can take my affairs into my own hands,”—uncontrollable annoyance clouded his face,—“but for her I had never lost Orange—and my estates have been utterly mismanaged, it will be a month’s work straightening her accounts; the land hath been left unsold and I have as many debts as a captain of cavalry——”

He checked himself with his habitual distrust, as if he repented already of such a long speech, and rose, taking up the candle.

M. Van Odyk accepted his dismissal.

“I need not have disturbed Your Highness,” he said, rising.

“It is no matter,” answered the Prince, with a little cough.

Lange Jan struck, but neither noticed how his noisy chimes broke the stillness of the night, for each had heard such peals ringing out over the Seven Provinces every hour of every day and night since they could remember anything.

The Lord of Beverwaert took the candle from the Prince and opened the door.

“I forgot to tell Your Highness, a man came here—from the Hague. He desired to see you, but the crowd made it impossible. He wished to join your service. I do not think that it was a matter of any importance.”

“Who was he?” asked William, holding his brow.

“One Florent Van Mander, who has been with M. de Witt.”

“I remember him,” said the Prince.

“I told him to return to-morrow, Highness.”

“He is rather hasty in changing masters,” said William, with a half malicious smile in his eyes. “I cannot pay as well as M. de Witt—yet.”

“There are those would rather serve you, Highness, nevertheless.”

“Thank you, Mynheer.”

William held out his beautiful, aristocratic hand, and the Lord of Beverwaert kissed it.

“Good-night, Mynheer.”

“Shall I send Bromley to you, Highness?”

“No—I require nothing.”

But Van Odyk hesitated.

“You look very pale—I am remorseful that I disturbed you.”

“Oh, as to that,” the Prince gave a sudden, brilliant smile, “I have a damnable headache, which is too ordinary an affair to be remarked on, is it not? Do not rouse poor Bromley, and get to bed yourself, Mynheer.”

“Shall I not leave the candle, Highness?”

“Nay, I have another. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Highness.”

The Prince closed the door on the Lord of Beverwaert and returned to the table at the foot of his bed.

He began to strike the flint and tinder, but a sudden cough shook him so that he had to put the box down in order to hold his head, suddenly throbbing with acute agony.

For a while he sat quiet, drawing his breath painfully, then, at a second attempt, lit the candle, and the tall flame sprang up and mingled with the moonlight.

The Prince thrust the two letters into the pocket of his coat and moved the candle away from his eyes.

Then he drew towards him the books on the table: one a black-letter Bible with silver corners and clasps, the other, Idea or Portrait of a Christian Prince, by Cornelius Triglandt, humbly bound in black.

William languidly opened this, then glanced at the watch beside his elbow.

It was close on four o’clock.

Resting his head in his hand, he lifted his eyes and gazed at the moonlit square of window. He could see, rising opposite against the clear sky, the turrets of the Abbey, their weathervanes turning in the cold sea-wind, and the boughs of the elms decked scantily with their last leaves.

William glanced again at the book. It lay open at the fly-leaf that bore his arms, the lion rampant against the billets, and underneath his motto—

“Je sera Nassau, moi, je maintaindrai.”

The Prince put his hand down on the page and drew a quick but instantly repressed breath.

Over the sleeping city the old clock chimed again, the little ancient melody, the jangling strokes.

William leant back in the chair. The candle cast his shadow, moving and fantastic, on the wall behind him, drew out lines of red gold in his hair and threw a faint glow over his colourless features.

It was utterly silent save for his labouring breath. M. Triglandt’s book lay open beside the light that flickered over the motto engraved between fine flourishes—

“Je sera Nassau, moi, je maintaindrai.”

CHAPTER VII
THE MANIFESTO

The Prince’s gentlemen and the knights and nobles of Zeeland were gathered in the council chamber of the Abbey, talking together in twos and threes.

The room was large and light, and barely furnished. On the wall facing the windows hung the famous blue-and-white tapestries, representing the Dutch victories over the Spanish; and on the wide-tiled hearth some logs were burning, for the day was raw and chilly and the trees without tossed against a grey sky.

Many of the younger men, richly dressed, were laughing, walking about impatiently, striking their riding-whips on their high boots and exchanging daring comments on M. de Witt.

It was to curb the impetuousness of these youthful nobles that the Princess Dowager had summoned the old Prince John Maurice from Cleves, thinking he would take her grandson under his protection; but seventy proving more timorous than seventeen William was left to manage alone the enthusiasm and recklessness of his followers.

In one of the window embrasures the Lord of Zuylestein stood conversing with M. Van Odyk, M. Heenvliet, the first gentleman-in-waiting, and M. Renswoude, the first equerry.

The perpetual chimes announced nine o’clock and the Prince entered accompanied by Mr. Bromley.

He saluted all of them, and advanced with an outstretched hand to M. de Zuylestein, who had once possessed his entire confidence, and though the years of separation had weakened the friendship between them, William was still gracious.

“Did you sleep well, Highness?” asked M. de Zuylestein, who only unbent his haughty manner to the Prince.

“As usual, Mynheer.” He pulled his gloves from his sword-belt and slowly drew them on.

It was noticeable that he used no arts to ingratiate himself with his supporters. His manner was distant and reserved, he hardly glanced at those about him. Under his heavy black beaver his face showed composed and inscrutable.

At his entry all had fallen silent, and all, more or less openly, were observing him.

“I missed the clock.” He took out his watch. “A little after nine. M. de Zuylestein, I should like to see the church.”

“Will Your Highness go down now?”

“Yes.”

The Prince took his whip from Mr. Bromley and stuck it in his boot.

“M. Van Odyk,” he said, coughing, “tell them I will ride to the Stadhuis; I am smothered in their coach and six.”

Attended by M. de Zuylestein and Mr. Bromley, and followed by several of his gentlemen, the Prince descended the narrow, polished stairs and came out into the courtyard.

It was a cloudy autumn morning, windy and cold. The brown and yellow leaves circled the tree-trunks in shivering crowds and sank fluttering from the almost bare branches. The red-brick Abbey buildings, with their blue and yellow painted shutters, the pointed towers pierced with irregular windows, rose up distinct and clearly coloured.

Directly behind them Lange Jan towered, his Gothic windows bricked up or furnished with coloured shutters, his bells visible in his leaden cupola and crowned with the weathercock. Beside the tower, just above the line of the Abbey roof, rose the majestic outline of the body of the church.

One of the Zeeland nobles explained.

“When this was the Abbey church, Highness, it was possible to reach it from the Palace, through the cloisters, but these have fallen into disuse and have been built up.”

“It was a pleasant dwelling,” remarked William. It seemed, by the swift look he swept over the Abbey, as if he remembered that his ancestors, the counts of Holland, had lived in it.

They passed under the low entrance arch, and almost immediately to their right was the small side door of the church.

It was open.

William uncovered and entered.

About the door was the square, wooden railing, its gate locked during service so that the devout might not be disturbed, and the late-comers be pilloried in the public eye, forced to remain standing like sheep in a pen; now, however, the gate stood open, and William, resting his hand on it, looked round.

He was under the tower and the organ, sideways to the length of the building and facing the pulpit.

Magnificent in line and proportion, and of a noble magnitude, the great church gave an instant and chilling impression of bareness and coldness.

The Reformation had let the light into this and many another once dim and gorgeous temple of the old faith. The jewelled colours had gone from the arched windows, and clear glass took their place. Precious marbles, gold and silver vessels, tapestries and paintings had gone also, and walls and roof were whitewashed from top to bottom; in the daylight glaring in on them from the unshaded windows they gave a desolate effect of dreary immensity.

The huge pillars set in double rows were whitewashed too; in parts, on their granite bases, it had worn off and showed the stone beneath.

Monuments, saints, shrines, and carvings had been torn from the walls, and unbroken panelling of plain wood covered the places that knew them no more.

There was no altar; where it had been stood a bare and open space.

Heavy, stiff, and narrow pews filled the nave, and under the severe, high-placed pulpit the seats of the elders rose in tiers, each with a brass-clasped Bible before it out of which hung a long green marker.

William leant heavily on the gate and gazed at the spot where, opposite to him, two monuments broke the white expanse of wall. They were the tablets in black to the memory of William, King of Holland, and his brother Floris. Above them an inscription told how the latter had died, and been buried here in Middelburg 1256. The King’s tablet bore a simple carving of a mantle, a wreath with a sword through it, a crowned helmet—a globe.

In the niche above the name of Floris were helmet, mantle, and sword only.

William did not even glance at the only other monument the church contained, that to the brothers Van Evertzen, which was still in course of erection. The staunch republican heroes had not so much interest for the young Prince as the simple record of these long-dead rulers of Holland.

He stood so still the gentlemen behind him thought that he must be praying. They could not see his face, only his slight figure leaning against the railing, the bright hair on his shoulders and his slack hand holding the beaver whose drooping plume touched the ground.

Suddenly he turned, and there was a faint colour in his face.

“You have a fine church, Mynheer,” he addressed the Zeeland nobleman in a low voice. “I should wish to be here on Sunday.”

They passed out of the cold light of the church into the sunless grey of the morning air. M. Van Odyk came to meet them.

The Deputies were waiting to conduct His Highness to the Stadhuis. His Highness did not hurry himself for this, but came leisurely across the courtyard.

Among those waiting round the Abbey door was one he recognised.

He stopped.

“M. Van Mander,” he said.

Florent coloured hotly. Those standing near fell back as the Prince spoke.

“I have come to join Your Highness’ service,” said Van Mander awkwardly.

The Prince’s compelling eyes fixed themselves on him with a look of power, of daring and mastery, of half-smiling self-confidence that made the blood of the man who caught it leap as if in answer to some rousing summons.

“You may stay if you will,” was all William said as he passed into the Abbey.

Florent Van Mander flushed with pleasure. His poor offer was at least not refused; yet he asked himself why he was so elated at changing from the employ of M. de Witt to the service of a pretender embarked on a difficult enterprise? He did not know—but he did know that he would rather be a foot-boy in the Prince’s train than confidential clerk to M. de Witt, and that that one glance from William was more to him than all the Grand Pensionary’s gentle goodness.

The courtyard filled with people on horseback and on foot. Most of them wore orange ribbons in their coats, and most took off their hats when the Prince came out of the Abbey attended by the burgher councillors in their robes and chains of office.

William preceded them, covered, as Florent was quick to remark, and with the same ceremony as if he already held his father’s offices. He mounted the black horse, waiting for him, and from the saddle looked round the crowded courtyard.

He was already one of the finest riders in the Netherlands, graceful and fearless, and able to manage the fiercest horse after a fashion strange in one of his frail appearance. This was no valueless asset in the eyes of men such as M. de Zuylestein, who regretted the delicate health and reserved demeanour of one who must rely on popularity for his advancement.

His fine horsemanship was the one showy thing about the Prince, and on the rare occasions when he had displayed himself to the people it had not failed of its effect.

Mr. Bromley, adding later to his letter to Her Highness the impetuous, intriguing Princess Dowager, had great things to say of the Prince’s progress to the Stadhuis that morning.

“He rode through the streets with his hat in his hand,” wrote the Englishman, “smiling a little, this way and that—all the maids must wear orange ribbons, and all the men look out their swords. Zeeland at least is tired of M. de Witt—‘We want a soldier, a Prince,’ I hear on all sides; they go mad for him. M. de Zuylestein feared that he was not open enough with the people, but it is not necessary for His Highness to make himself beloved, since he is so already, and his demeanour hath pleased every one. I had not believed this city to be so large and prosperous until I saw the crowds of well-dressed people filling the streets, the windows, and the roofs——”

Here, however, Mr. Bromley’s information came to a stop, for the Prince’s suite remained outside the council chamber, only M. de Zuylestein and M. Van Odyk entering with him.

The representatives of the six towns and the nobles of Zeeland were assembled to meet him; at his entry they rose as one man.

For a breath or two William remained in the doorway, gazing at them, as if hesitating what to do.

The chamber was low and hushed, not very large; the walls of stone, the ceiling of heavy dark wood; the diamond-paned window opposite the door looked on to the street, and bore in the centre of each lozenge the Lion of Zeeland, rising rampant from the waves.

A fire burnt on the blue-and-white tiled hearth, and in the centre of the room was placed the large table, covered with a plain green cloth, about which the Deputies sat.

At the desks in the window recesses were placed a couple of clerks, their ink-horns, quills, and folios before them. The sole colour and brightness in the whole chamber was the effect of the chains of gold worn over the sombre gowns and white collars of the Councillors.

At the head of the table stood a velvet arm-chair. The Deputies, who had conducted the Prince, requested him to seat himself there and assume the presidency of the assembly.

Each member took then his own place.

William sat down, covered, and began to pull off his gloves, loosening the fingers slowly, one by one, his eyes cast down.

He was younger by twenty years than the youngest there, and despite his gravity looked but the boy he was in contrast with the weighty men about him. M. de Zuylestein, glancing at him, felt his heart sink; too much had been thrust on to the shoulders of seventeen. He looked across the table at M. Van Odyk and in his eyes saw the same uneasiness.

The Deputy of the city of Middelburg rose in his place and turned towards the Prince.

He was a grey-haired man, pompous and self-important.

His even, official voice fell on a contained stillness. He offered the presidency of this meeting to the Prince of Orange; thanked him for coming to Middelburg in person to accept the dignity of premier noble of Zeeland, which, the speaker reminded him, was his by right as well as by the will of the people; professed the greatest loyalty to his interests, and ended with an only half-veiled allusion to Zeeland’s readiness to go yet further lengths on his behalf.

He sat down.

There was a pause; every one was looking at the Prince. M. de Zuylestein felt uneasy. He knew how much William had dared to be there, and what this enterprise meant to him, and the youth’s perfect self-control seemed to him unnatural. He did not know what this boy was going to say, he feared both that it might be too bold and not bold enough.

William laid his tasselled gloves on the table and rose.

It seemed as if the hushed assembly became yet more utterly still.

The Prince’s face was shaded by his hat, but M. Van Odyk, a sympathetic observer, saw it was nearly as colourless as the lace round his throat. He rested his hand on the arm of the chair, and the light was caught in his square green ring and in the silver buttons on his cuff.

M. de Zuylestein leant back. He could not but feel anxious. This was the first time that the Prince had in any way expressed his opinions, or in any way spoken in public; it was the first hint of his own attitude as yet given to his partisans.

He had neither paper nor note to help him. Even M. Van Odyk had no idea what he was going to say.

With his low, slow utterance William began, fixing his brilliant eyes on the faces of the Councillors of Zeeland.

“I thank you for your speech, Mynheer Van Huybert, and you for your loyalty, my lords and gentlemen of Zeeland, a loyalty which you have maintained towards me since the day of my birth, and which no evil example nor evil fortune has caused to falter. You have done more to-day than honour me within the limits of your own State—you have had the courage to give the signal that the United Provinces await.”

He paused, as if to let the open daring of his last sentence have its full effect.

With the effort of speaking his pallor had disappeared under a faint blush; he was breathing a trifle heavily.

“If I had delayed taking possession of my office, I should have considered myself lacking in respect to your wishes. It is not in my nature to consider obstacles nor to wait on circumstance; I consider that the time has come for me to follow in the footsteps of my ancestors.”

He paused again and took off his hat, so that the light, streaming in through the windows at his left, fell full upon his face. His princely features, framed in the bright waves of his heavy hair, flushed deeper with the emotion shining in his intense eyes.

“I shall never forget the honour that you have done me to-day. I do not think that you will find me unworthy of the confidence of Zeeland.

“I look about me on perilous times; I see that there is much to do for the preservation of the United Provinces and the Reformed Religion. But it has never been the habit of my House to find any sacrifice too great in the service of God, and to whatever duty He be pleased to call me I shall be faithful.”

His glance flashed from one face to another; suddenly he smiled.

“Gentlemen, you know the motto of my House—‘I will maintain.’”

He put on his hat and sat down.

The speech was a manifesto. An old statesman could have framed nothing that could have pleased the people better. M. Van Odyk, relieved and satisfied, pictured the effect of His Highness’ words, printed by the thousand and scattered up and down the country.

The silence seemed to thrill and gather. The Deputies moved, looked at each other, nodded and smiled with narrowed eyes; hidden excitement flushed every face.

The burgomaster of Middelburg, M. Van Huybert, again rose.

“In the name of Zeeland we thank Your Highness.”

Behind the words was more than any words or any action could express,—deep loyalty to the ancient House, blind enthusiasm for the ancient glories, unquestioning belief in the descendant of the man who had given the Netherlands their freedom.

William saluted them, recommended the Lord of Beverwaert to their notice as his deputy, and left the chamber.

When his suite had reached the Markt, and William was remounted, his gentlemen crowded about him with congratulations.

The men and women who had come from all parts of the Island to see him, dressed in their neat native costume, black with the gold and coral ornaments; the burgher companies on horseback, the pikemen on foot, the shopkeepers in their best, pressed round the cavalcade, almost impeding its progress in their eagerness to catch sight of William of Orange.

William glanced back at the stately Stadhuis, with its statues of the Counts of Holland and their ladies, under the delicate carved canopies, standing between each window; at the pointed roof pierced with little gabled windows behind blue shutters, painted with white in the shape of a curtain drawn to a waist; at the Gothic tower with its leaden dome and clock,—it seemed as if he would fix the place on his mind.

A pale beam of sun broke through the clouds and rested on the building.

“It is done,” said the Lord of Beverwaert in easy elation.

William of Orange gathered up his reins and turned his horse in the direction of the Abbey of St. Nicolas.

“Mynheer, it is begun,” he answered.

CHAPTER VIII
M. DE WITT AND HIS HIGHNESS

“Where is the Prince now?” asked Cornelius de Witt.

“At Honsholredyck, once his mother’s house. He will not return directly to the Hague for fear of my authority.”

The Grand Pensionary stood at the window of his residence in the Kneuterdyk Avenue and looked, as he spoke, out at the colourless afternoon.

“But this will bring him,” replied the Ruard grimly. He referred to the skilful measure his brother had taken. On receiving the news from Zeeland, the Grand Pensionary had forced the Assembly to pass a law forbidding individual provinces to reinstate the Stadtholdership without the sanction of the other States, and confirming M. de Montbas in his appointment as Captain General.

“Maybe. He hath discovered a stubborn disposition that makes it difficult to know what he will do. He hath sent his valet to Professor Bornius and M. de Chapuygeau, dispensing with their services.”

“This is impudence,” frowned Cornelius. “He hath no right to dismiss his tutors when he is under your guardianship.”

“He had no right to go to Zeeland,” returned John de Witt, moving from the window; “nor any right to deceive me with intent to rouse dissension in the State,—but since he had the will and the power, what avails our talk of right?”

Cornelius leant forward from his high-backed chair and stared thoughtfully into the fire.

The pleasant glow of the burning logs played over his blunt-featured, well-looking face, his handsome grey silk dress, braided in gold, his embroidered baldric, his high boots and massive sword-hilt. He was a large and weighty man, of a demeanour more passionate and impatient than his brother.

“You must remember I always distrusted this pupil of yours,” he said slowly. “Have we not had enough difficulty, at home and abroad, that you must nurse this viper to sting you on your own hearth?”

John de Witt moved to the other side of the fireplace.

“He is very young.”

The Ruard glanced up.

“Ah, still you make excuses for him.”

“I endeavour to be just, brother,” answered the Grand Pensionary. “This young man hath fooled me, I confess it. I have done all in my power to prevent this mistake of mine proving of danger to the State——”

“Do not imagine that I reproach you,” put in Cornelius quickly.

His brother faintly smiled.

“It may be that I wish to justify myself … a statesman should not be so easily deceived—and by a child. I thought I could rely on those I had placed about him. I did not know he was in communication with M. de Zuylestein.”

“All which shows that he is cleverer than we. Why do you speak of his youth, since he has belied it with his wisdom?” asked Cornelius warmly.

“I thought not of wisdom or cleverness,” replied the Grand Pensionary, half mournfully, “but of what his character might be; what honour, strength, or nobility he may possess. I have taken some pains with his teaching, he hath been educated as a Christian, a Dutchman, a gentleman; I cannot believe my labour has been in vain—not utterly.”

“He seeks his father’s power, and less will not satisfy him,” said the Ruard. “And as every magistrate in Holland hath sworn to the Perpetual Edict of the abdication of his House, what is there before us if he grows in strength?”

“His hopes cannot be so presumptuous,” answered John de Witt sternly. “If they are we must check them. I have regained the Princess Dowager, through her fears and her vanity.”

“She hath no influence with him. He owns no counsellor but his pride—he attended the review of the troops at Breda——”

“Against my will.”

“He went to flaunt us.”

“Still, at the officers’ banquet they placed him below M. de Montbas, and he would not take his seat nor call upon M. de Montbas; so his ambition brings humiliation on him. We gained by that show of firmness.”

“No concessions,” said the Ruard, “no concessions. His party become incredibly bold; we have been driven to order out the train-bands at Dordt to check the mob.”

“It is a marvellous thing that they should clamour for him,” mused John de Witt, turning his dark, sad eyes on his brother. “What can they know of him that they should love him so?”

“The base crowd care not about his qualities,” replied the Ruard, “they but seek an excuse for disorder and lawlessness. Did you hear Vivien in the Assembly to-day?”

“No.”

Cornelius de Witt laughed angrily.

“He was cutting a book with a steel knife. I, sitting next him, asked what he was about. ‘Trying the effect of steel on parchment,’ he said—meaning that once there was a sword in the Prince of Orange’s hand there would be an end of the Perpetual Edict.”

John de Witt was silent, and his brother rose.

“If I am to return to Dordt to-night I must take my leave.”

The Grand Pensionary roused himself from absorbed thoughts; he asked after his brother’s wife and his own children.

“Do you see them often?”

“Almost every day.”

“I have put a Bible for Agneta in your portmantle—it is large print that she may read it while at her spinning-wheel.”

“She is a good girl.”

A radiant look came into John de Witt’s eyes.

“I can hardly bring myself to do without such precious company, but they are better with my sister. This house is too quiet, and I so seldom here.”

Both were silent, thinking of Wendela de Witt. Regrets were not in their religion; believing, they could not repine.

The firelight, showing more strongly as the grey day faded, warmed the sombre, dark room into a more cheerful aspect, glittering redly in the brass fireirons and bellows, the nails in the leather chairs, the Ruard’s embroidered dress and sword-hilt; showing, too, the Grand Pensionary’s tall and stately figure in his quiet black with the plain linen collar tied with silk tassels, and the brown hair falling either side the melancholy, composed face.

There was a great likeness between the two brothers, though Cornelius was of a larger make, a freer carriage, haughtier perhaps and more fiery, but with a glance as dignified and a bearing as noble.

“Since you must go——” John de Witt was saying, when Van Ouvenaller opened the door.

“Mynheer, His Highness the Prince of Orange.”

The brothers exchanged a quick glance.

“He is here?”

“In the library, Mynheer.”

“Alone?”

“He rode up with one of his gentlemen, Mynheer, who remains with the horses.”

John de Witt laid his hand on his brother’s sleeve.

“Desire the Prince to come in here if he wishes to see me, Van Ouvenaller.”

When the secretary had gone, the Ruard spoke.

“You did not know he was at the Hague?”

“No; he must have ridden from Honsholredyck to-day.”

“What does this move mean?”

The Grand Pensionary’s lips were sternly set, his brows slightly frowning.

“I do not know, Cornelius.”

“He hath heard of what passed in the Assembly yesterday.”

“Will you stay?”

“Nay, he would not speak before me—we never loved one another.”

“He must speak before whomsoever I choose to question him since he is still under my tutelage,” answered John de Witt sternly.

“Yet I will not remain, lest your patience and his presumption should anger me.”

M. Van Ouvenaller entered again, announcing the Prince, who followed him.

The secretary withdrew, closing the door, and William of Orange stood facing the brothers. He was in riding costume, and wore over it a dark velvet mantle. His whip was in his boot, he carried his gloves and his hat in his right hand, purposely to cover the fact that he did not offer it to M. de Witt.

There was a colour in his face, and his bright hair was tumbled over his falling lace collar. He had ridden a long way in a keen wind.

“I am glad that Your Highness hath seen fit to return to the Hague,” said M. de Witt. He also did not offer his hand.

“I was ill at Honsholredyck, Mynheer,” answered William. “Good day, Mynheer the Ruard.” And he fixed his eyes with a daring expression of haughty dislike on Cornelius de Witt. He knew perfectly well that in the Grand Pensionary’s brother there was a staunch and fearless republican, an enemy of his House, with distrust of him far keener than John de Witt’s; but more than this, William disliked the Ruard because he felt in him some one who read him better than any other man. Had Cornelius been in his brother’s place, William would never have escaped to Middelburg.

The Ruard returned the Prince’s salute very coldly.

“I hope Your Highness hath recovered your health sufficiently to enable you to resume your duties.”

“What are my duties?” asked William, looking at him under drooping lids. “I thought it was my misfortune to have none, Mynheer.”

“Your duties are your studies,” replied Cornelius sternly, “and obedience to M. de Witt.”

The Prince slightly smiled; his glance flickered from one man to the other. John de Witt not at all, and Cornelius only partially, guessed at the implacable resentment hidden behind his impassive exterior, and neither knew that the Ruard’s remark was one more added to those things the Prince would never forgive.

“It is with M. de Witt I wish to speak,” he said.

“I shall not disturb Your Highness.”

But John de Witt interposed.

“My brother is in the entire confidence of the States, Highness, and you may say what you have come to say before him.”

“Mynheer the Ruard may be in your confidence, M. de Witt,” replied William, still with a slight smile, “but he is not in mine.”

Cornelius took up his plumed hat and bowed proudly to the Prince.

“Good day, Your Highness. Good day, brother.”

William gave him as careless a salute as he dared and turned his back as the Ruard closed the door.

John de Witt’s just indignation was not softened by this haughtiness.

“What is the object of this visit?” he demanded. “After keeping me entirely ignorant of your movements, why do you come to my house in this informal way?”

They both remained standing; the Prince with his hand resting on the little oak table beside him.

“I wrote to you, Mynheer, from Vlaardingen, to tell you that the Princess and the Elector had declared me of age—they have notified this to the Assembly.” William spoke quietly, looking down. “Therefore I do not consider it necessary to give an account of my actions to any one.”

“Neither the Princess nor the Elector are your guardians, but the States,” replied the Grand Pensionary sternly. “And Their High Mightinesses have fixed your majority in another four years; until then, I, representing them, am responsible for your education and your behaviour. It seems, Highness, that you will make my task difficult.”

William moved to the fire and seated himself in the chair the Ruard had occupied. It was not lost on M. de Witt that he did so easily, without invitation, as if in his own house.

“By going to Middelburg you have placed yourself at the head of the Malcontents,” continued M. de Witt, “and taken upon yourself the dangerous and troublesome part of a pretender.”

“Nay, Mynheer,” William glanced up, “I pretend to nothing; I went to Middelburg to enter upon an office mine by right.”

“You had not the sanction of the State.”

“Mynheer—I was within the law—the law of the Republic,” answered the Prince. “The State of Zeeland invited me, and I saw no reason to refuse. If Their High Mightinesses consider Zeeland did amiss—it is a matter for the Assembly.”

The Grand Pensionary seated himself the other side of the hearth and fixed his deep eyes on the Prince’s composed face.

“You did a daring thing, an ill-considered thing, and, I think, a dishonourable thing,” he said.

William blushed hotly at that last epithet, and for once the effort at control showed. He was silent because he did not trust himself to speak.

“I put before you,” continued John de Witt, “the state of the country. I asked you to dissociate yourself from the faction that used your name. You evaded my frankness, you deceived my trust; while you assumed docility you were planning to raise the standard of revolt. While I was teaching you your duty to God and your country you were secretly nursing selfish, ambitious, and dangerous designs. In a word,” he made a disdainful gesture with his hand, “you deceived me.”

The Prince made a movement that tossed his violet mantle back from his shoulders.

“I have never given you my word on any matter on which I have broken it,” he said in a low voice, “nor used fair speeches. My behaviour has been what you might have looked for from a State prisoner. I have said I am grateful to you for your care, M. de Witt; I repeat it, you have my duty and my friendship.”

“What duty or friendship was it that played this stroke?” asked the Grand Pensionary.

William raised his brilliant eyes.

“I was within the law, Mynheer. That I went to claim my father’s private titles has nothing to do with affairs of State.”

“Your visit had a political complexion.”

“Who has so represented it to you? Any lord visiting his fief would receive the welcome Zeeland gave me. I could not imagine that the friendliness of people long devoted to my House could cause uneasiness to the Government.”

Their eyes met, but nothing was expressed in William’s steady glance that M. de Witt could read his words by.

“Not uneasiness to the Government, Highness,” answered the Grand Pensionary quietly, “for that is strong enough to quell whatever dissatisfaction your action may have raised, but uneasiness to me, who have your welfare at heart. I had hoped to accomplish as your friend what I may now have to perform as your adversary.”

The Prince looked into the fire. The lace on his breast was rising and falling quickly with his breathing, and his reddish, arched brows were raised slightly. John de Witt marvelled in his heart at this youth’s control; he was a little baffled by it. His desire was to take William’s manner for sincerity; experience, and the counsels of Cornelius, warned him that it might very well be diplomacy. Himself, he was using the one weapon he had used all his life, a noble, simple honesty of purpose and of speech.

“You have heard what has taken place in the Assembly?” he asked.

“Yes, Mynheer.” William drew out his laced handkerchief and pressed it to his lips. “It is concerning the measures lately passed in the Assembly that I wished to speak to you.”

“They could not please you,” said M. de Witt, half mournfully; “but you forced me.”

The Prince coughed.

“It seems you think me dangerous, Mynheer?”

John de Witt answered him directly—

“I think the position you might assume would be dangerous.”

William lifted suddenly smiling eyes.

“Were not my hopes of dominion effectually foiled by the Perpetual Edict, Mynheer, that you needed other laws to strengthen your power?”

“Not my power,” replied M. de Witt, “but the safety of the Republic.”

William pushed back the hair from his low forehead.

“Ah, you credit me with ambitions—am I not sufficiently helpless? Do you think I should intrigue for the mastery of the Seven Provinces, I—who am heir to nothing?” He gave a little smile, half bitter. “You need not have taken these precautions, M. de Witt.”

“Of what does Your Highness complain?” asked the Grand Pensionary.

William answered with a flash of repressed feeling—

“Their High Mightinesses engaged to give me the Captain Generalship when I came of age … and it has been placed in the hands of M. de Montbas.”

“You are not yet of age, Highness—youth and inexperience must wait and learn. M. de Montbas is a good soldier, and the States have confidence in him.”

The Prince’s hand closed tightly on the arm of his chair.

“And I had your promise, Mynheer, to obtain for me a seat in the Council of State, yet I hear you oppose my election——”

“By your action in Middelburg you have forfeited my favour in this matter,” replied M. de Witt. “And I am sorry.”

William bit his lip.

“You have seen the Princess Dowager,” he said.

“And won her to my views for you.”

“What are your—views, Mynheer?”

“I have told Her Highness that the States will not be forced. By premature intrigues you merely endanger the goodwill of the Republic, on which rest all your hopes.”

The Prince gave him a keen look.

“So—you will oppose me in the Assembly?” he asked, rather breathlessly.

“I shall oppose your election into the Council of State, Highness—at least till you are of age.”

“And your reason, Mynheer?”

“My reason,” replied the Grand Pensionary gravely, “is that I am the servant of this Republic and sworn to maintain it in its integrity, therefore I cannot put so much power into the hands of one who has nothing save his birth as a qualification. I am not blind to your abilities, Highness, but you are too young, and have just given proof you may be too ambitious.”

William made a little movement in his chair.

“And the Captain Generalship?” he asked.

“On that point the States are adamant, it remains in the hands of M. de Montbas—until you are of age at least.”

There was a second’s pause while William strove to contain himself, when he spoke it was in a low voice—

“I am sorry to have incurred your enmity, Mynheer.”

“Not my enmity,” returned M. de Witt, with feeling; “there you mistake me, Highness.”

“You yourself assure me of your opposition to my claims,” said the Prince. “You yourself tell me that you have withdrawn your promise in the matter of the Council of State.”

“And I have told you why: because I uphold this Republic, because I must serve what I have sworn to serve, because I cannot, on my conscience, sacrifice the liberty of many to the aggrandisement of one—because I am opposed to princely power. But this does not leave me, Highness, the less your friend.”

William was silent.

The shadows had so encroached on them that they could hardly see each other. M. de Witt himself lit the candles and placed them on the mantelshelf, where they were reflected in the tortoiseshell-framed mirror.

As the steady light filled the chamber the Grand Pensionary looked down at the Prince.

“Do you not understand,” he said, “my position, what I must, and what I shall do?”

“I understand,” answered William, “what I can not do, Mynheer.”

“I have angered you, Highness.” John de Witt spoke gently. “It is against my will—I would serve you any way I could—I would forget the unruly spirit you have shown. Is it not possible there might yet be confidence between us?”

The Prince replied as abruptly as irrelevantly—

“Mynheer, was it by your commands I was slighted at Breda?”

John de Witt’s face hardened.

“I know of no slight, Highness. It was you who treated the officers with contempt when you refused to sit down to table with them.”

“By your desire I was placed below M. de Montbas?”

“Yes, by my desire,” answered M. de Witt firmly. “Why do you refer to this incident, Highness? It was against my wish that you went to the camp, and in the matter of the banquet you behaved foolishly.”

“There was no gentleman there, as there is no gentleman in the United Provinces, above me in rank,” said the Prince, and a barely contained pride was in his eyes and voice.

“M. de Montbas is above you as the representative of the Republic and the head of the Army, Highness.”

Again William bit his lip. With the effort of keeping back the passion in his soul he flushed and quivered, fixing his eyes, that he knew often betrayed him, on the fire.

“Very well, Mynheer, I shall remember your wish, or the desire of the law, whichever I must call it.”

At the slightest touch of submission John de Witt always softened instantly.

He crossed the hearth, came behind William’s chair and laid his hand affectionately on the youth’s shoulder.

“It is difficult to be a prince in a Republic. You have, in many ways, a hard heritage; believe me, I have always understood it. We owe your House too much … of all things I detest ingratitude.… I have seen nobility in you, too. You will be worthy of your name.”

The Prince, whose perfect insight and tact had already assured him that he would obtain no concessions from the Grand Pensionary, controlled himself to a soft answer.

“This further puts me in your debt, M. de Witt,” he said, and rose, holding the mantle on his breast. “You will not find me ungrateful … if I have troubled you … you must forgive me.”

This graceful surrender surprised and touched M. de Witt.

“Indeed I have been ill,” continued William, “or I had written to you—but since I could not with my own hand, I was loath to send you a letter by a clerk.”

“I am sorry for your ill health,” said M. de Witt sincerely, “and glad that you are reasonable.”

“I trust you will never find me otherwise, Mynheer.”

All trace of ill-humour had vanished from the Prince’s manner. He could, when he chose, be charming; very few could resist him when he unbent, certainly not John de Witt.

“We will take up our interrupted studies, Highness, and I will overlook an indiscretion, as you must overlook some necessary harshness,” he smiled.

“Do not recall M. Bornius and M. de Chapuygeau,” pleaded William frankly. “Mynheer, I know all they can teach me. M. Huggens, M. Van Ghent, and yourself are sufficient tutors for me,—nay, you will do me this favour, not to put over me men whom I dislike.”

John de Witt was still smiling.

“You had no right to dismiss them, Highness, but to show my goodwill I shall obtain this favour for you.”

“I am greatly obliged to you, Mynheer.”

William was thanking him, flattering him, with his marvellous eyes, his low voice and grateful carriage.

“Will you honour me with a visit to-morrow, Mynheer?” he asked, with an air of courteous outspokenness that sat charmingly on his youth. “I have left M. Van Odyk in Middelburg to exercise those duties that will be mine when I am out of tutelage—for the rest, I beg you will forgive them.”

“Highness,” answered John de Witt, gravely and sweetly, “it is my mind ever to spend as little time as possible in looking backwards, it will be my very great happiness to forget everything save your good qualities, and to work side by side with you in the future.”

William fixed his smiling eyes on the Grand Pensionary’s face and held out his hand—

“Thank you, Mynheer, my actions shall show me not ungrateful.”

M. de Witt clasped the frail fingers warmly.

“Mr. Bromley will be tired of waiting,” said the Prince, “and I fear I have already trespassed on your kindness.”

He picked up his hat and gloves from the chair by the fire.

“Until to-morrow, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary came to the door with him. The lamps were lit in the Kneuterdyk Avenue, and the invariable autumn mists were blowing coldly from the sea.

“There will be skating soon,” said William, with a little shiver.

Mr. Bromley, walking the horses up and down, stopped before the house at sight of his master.

“Good-night, Highness.”

“Good-night, M. de Witt; and again, thank you.”

The Grand Pensionary closed the door, and the Prince descended the steps. As he turned his back on M. de Witt’s house his eyes narrowed as if he looked at something a long way off.

“Well, Your Highness?” asked Mr. Bromley, who was rather cold but still good-humoured.

William mounted without touching the stirrup, and gathered up the reins.

“He is iron,” he said; “I could not do anything nor even attempt it. How much longer?” he added in a sombre passion, “how much longer?”

They trotted the horses briskly through the cobbled streets.

“M. de Chapuygeau and M. Bornius are not coming back; I have at least two masters the less,” remarked the Prince, with a gloomy satisfaction.

“I am glad, Highness,” answered Mr. Bromley, who hated these two. “And M. Van Ghent?”

“He stays—I could not speak against him.”

“Did M. de Witt mention his secretary who came to join you at Middelburg?”

“No. I cannot keep him in my service, Bromley—yet he might be useful,” added the Prince, with the statesman’s dislike to waste good material. “Well, we will talk of it to M. de Zuylestein.”

He lapsed into silence, but as they passed the Stadhuis Mr. Bromley roused him.

“Then you are still on bad terms with M. de Witt?” he suggested; wondering what this interview had amounted to, and whether the Prince’s cause had been advanced or no by this flight to Middelburg and its results.

“I am very good friends with M. de Witt,” answered William grimly, from out the depths of his riding-cloak collar, “and he hath forgiven me. But I had to fawn on him—fawn on him, Bromley!… It is a thing not to be forgotten.”

CHAPTER IX
AMALIA OF SOLMS

Her Highness the Dowager Princess of Orange coloured with pleasure, hastily put aside the letter she was writing, and went down to the chamber where, as she had just been told, her grandson awaited her.

It was a pouring wet day, and she had not been able to leave her elegant little residence to go into the garden which was, even at this time of the year, her delight. This had added to the weariness and monotony of her ordinary quiet life, and made the rare favour of a voluntary visit from the Prince, the only member of her family left her, and the person that she held dearest in the world, the more grateful.

The Princess was still comely, vivacious, and bright as when Prince Frederick Henry had married her, forty years ago. She was dressed with a richness and surrounded with a comfort that her straitened means made a marvel. To prevent economy from becoming meanness, and to keep luxury this side of extravagance, were her constant, almost her only, employments.

She opened the door softly and gazed at the Prince before he saw her.

The room looked on the front of the house, and was sumptuously furnished, with Persian carpets, Chinese cabinets, porcelain ornaments, carved settees and chairs, gilt and richly cushioned with stamped leather and satin.

Near the dark red silk window-curtains hung a brightly coloured parrot in an ebony ring, in front of the fire slept a white cat, on a chair near were a tambour frame and a basket of silks.

There was only one picture, a half-length portrait of William II., in armour, holding his helmet; this hung above the mantelpiece.

Cut deep into the heavy oak frame showed the motto of the house of Nassau.—

“Je sera Nassau, moi, je maintaindrai.”

Standing by the delicate-hued harpsichord that filled one corner of the room, the Prince waited. He held his whip in his hand and was frowning thoughtfully.

The Princess stepped into the chamber and closed the door with a little sound that made him turn.

“Ah, Madame, I disturb you——”

“Disturb me!” she interrupted, smiling, “it is good of you to come and see a lonely old woman.”

He came forward and would have saluted her hand, but she caught him by the shoulders and kissed him on the brow—a caress he did her the honour of enduring in silence.

“How cold you are!” she exclaimed. “Have you ridden here in this rain?”

It had been pouring all day; the question seemed to William too foolish to answer.

“And on horseback!” cried the Princess, catching sight of his whip, and wet mantle over a chair.

“You know I cannot endure a carriage, Madame.”

The Princess rang the little silver bell on her work-table.

“It is very imprudent, my dear—allow old age its liberty in saying so—you need a woman to look after you. These men would let you kill yourself and never notice it. Come to the fire,” she finished, with a pretty air of command.

William obeyed, coughing a little, which caused her to raise still further her brows and shake her head.

A servant made his appearance.

“Remove His Highness’ mantle and dry it—and—whom have you brought with you, William?”

“Mr. Bromley and a groom.”

“See His Highness’ gentleman is made comfortable, and let the horses be looked to,” said the Princess.

The man bowed low as he withdrew. The subtle air of a Court still clung round Amalia of Solms; in her own house, at least, she was treated as a sovereign Princess. William respected her for that. He found the atmosphere of her pleasant residence congenial; it was the nearest approach to home that he had ever known, and, compared with his dreary Palace at the Hague, ease, luxury, and comfort combined.

The Princess settled herself in her chair.

“I have not seen you since your visit to Middelburg. Come nearer the fire; sit down and tell me all that happened.”

She was a handsome old lady; had been of the pretty, imperious style of beauty, dark and flashing. As she leant back on her cushions now, in her yellow silk gown, with her brown eyes under her white hair and the fine lace round her head and fastened under her chin, she was a beauty still.

“You know what occurred at Middelburg, Madame,” answered William, not very warmly.

“I have had reports—letters from Mr. Bromley, to whom I am eternally grateful!—but from you nothing!”

William leant on the arm of his chair, coughed, and pushed back his curls.

His expression told the Princess that he was displeased with her. She had half expected it. Certainly she had helped concoct her grandson’s journey to Middelburg, but she had immediately thereafter been frightened and had allowed herself easily to be won by M. de Witt again to prudence—and William knew it.

Unfurling a black and glittering fan, she held it between her face and the fire, while she gave her grandson an anxious glance.

“You are angry with me, William,” she said plaintively. “You only came to see me because you wanted to scold me.”

The Prince still looked into the fire.

“Ah, me,” sighed Amalia of Solms, “I can never please you. You have no more devoted friend than I, and you do not repay me with the least regard or affection.”

The Prince answered now, in his soft voice and slow utterance—

“These reproaches, Madame, are foolish—it is I who have the grievance. Had you stood firm once I found myself in Middelburg I should find myself in a different position now.”

The Princess sat up with a helpless, appealing gesture, clasping her white hands over her heart.

“I did all I could—I solemnly notified to the Assembly that I had declared you of age—I wrote to Prince John Maurice begging him to join you——”

“He had not the courage to respond further than Bergen-op-Zoom,” interrupted William dryly.

“I know—it was not my fault—I thought that he would be a valuable ally for you——”

Again the Prince broke in—

“I think of M. de Witt, Madame—he came to you?”

“The moment he learned you were at Middelburg,” answered the Princess, with a shiver.

“What to find out or say?”

“I do not know,” the fan fluttered nervously. “It was dreadful——”

“And you were frightened—you made concessions.”

“Not one, my dear, not one!”

“M. de Witt warned you we were going too far.” William turned on her his masterful eyes.

“He was angry, of course,” said the Princess evasively.

“He told you my action had imperilled those favours already promised me—in a word, he threatened you.”

“Maybe he did—he was certainly angry,” repeated the Princess.

“And you gave way, Madame.”

“Not an inch!”

William smiled rather bitterly.

“I wish I could believe it——”

“Indeed, it is the truth.”

“It is the truth, Madame,” asserted the Prince impatiently, “that M. de Witt frightened you into losing all the ground we had gained. Of what use to me are a few plaudits in Middelburg if I lose the seat in the Council of State and the Captain Generalship?”

“You must not blame me for that,” protested the Princess. “I could not defy M. de Witt, who is, after all, our master.”

“You could have evaded him,” said William. “But no, you must meet him half-way; and, after declaring me of age, render us both foolish by waiving all discussion as to my future until I am twenty-two, the age the State appointed from the first … M. de Witt promises his friendship in four years time—and for that you retract everything——”

“Indeed no——”

But the Prince swept aside her protestations.

“You gave your consent to my remaining under the guardianship of M. de Witt, just as you put my education into the hands of the States, when they made overtures to you.”

“You have never forgiven it,” sighed Amalia of Solms, “but it was always for your good that I acted. The States took you under their protection … I could do nothing for you.”

William fixed his intense gaze on her.

“I would rather have been brought up by any poor pastor at a florin a week than by M. de Witt. You delivered me into a prison, Madame; and now, when I force the gates open, you close them on me again.”

The Princess furled her fan with a rattle of the ebony sticks.

“Indeed you wrong me—and hurt me, William.” She was flushed, distressed. “I did not dare offend M. de Witt—for your sake—it is better for you to have him as a friend than as an enemy. Where do we stand if he turns on us? The States——”

The Prince rose and leant against the mantelpiece, silencing the old lady with the manifest displeasure in his manner.

“Do not talk of the States, Madame, nor of the Republic,” he said, with a disdainful accent; “the first are not in my way, and the second is only a name. It is M. de Witt—always and only M. de Witt.”

“He is but a servant of the Government——”

“He is the Government,” retorted William, “and the one man who upholds it. Has he the suffrage of the country?—or even of the Assembly?—but they agree with him and obey him because they are not strong enough to resist. I tell you, Madame, it is that one man.”

“You dislike him,” sighed the Princess, as if she found it a matter for regret.

“Dislike him!” repeated William, with a peculiar intonation. “He hath kept me out of my birthright all my life; he, and he alone, prevents me from regaining it now. He—a burgher’s son!”

The passion he put into these last words startled his grandmother. She gazed at him mutely, opening and shutting her fan in her lap.

The Prince advanced across the room, twisting his handkerchief in his fingers.

“It becomes almost more than I can endure,” he said, breathing hard. “The other day I had to bring myself to speak him fair, and he must put his hand on my shoulder—and say he pitied me—and understood—understood—me!”

“He is a good man,” said the Princess, “and of a noble intelligence. I think that he desires to do his duty by you.”

The Prince was looking, not at her, but at the portrait of his father, whose dark eyes seemed to hold a melancholy yet fiery expression.

“I think M. de Witt does his duty very well,” he answered, “but I am not a republican to second him in it. By what right does he think to bend me into a tool to aid him in his usurped dominion?”

The Princess’ eyes followed her grandson’s gaze.

“It was this spirit in your father cost our House its heritage,” she said, half fearfully.

“It was M. de Witt!” William’s eyes gleamed fiercely, “His plebeian insolence!… It becomes very difficult for me to contain myself.… My father had his father jailed—into Loevenstein; I would I had him there—and his stiff brother too——”

Amalia of Solms made a startled movement.

“Hush! we must wait before we can speak in such fashion.”

“I have been waiting all my life,” returned William bitterly.

“You are young enough, you can afford to bide your time.”

The Prince gave her a strange, half sad look.

“Can I so afford to wait, Madame? There is very much for me to do … perhaps not many years in which to do it.”

“What do you mean?” cried the Princess, frightened.

“Why, it is of no matter,” he answered, as if he already regretted having said so much, and he turned away abruptly and looked out of the window at the rain, the grey sky, and the dripping trees.

Amalia of Solms watched him, the old fear catching at her heart.

She had been told that it would be a miracle if he grew to manhood, as she had been assured that he would never survive his infancy. She trusted one prediction would prove as false as the other, but as she considered his frail appearance, his eyes shadowed with pain, his colourless face, his languid movements; as she recalled his incessant cough, his perpetual headaches, the horrible conviction struck her that it was impossible for him to live long. She had a vague, disquieting sense, too, of some vast, ambitious, and proud spirit contained in the delicate body. Her grandson had never made a confidant of her, but she felt he cherished designs of she knew not what magnitude, and she was troubled for the loneliness he would not allow her to share.

The tears came to her eyes as she looked at him.

He stood leaning against the window frame, one hand on his hip, his proud and commanding profile towards her; the low brow shaded by the dark hair, the pale mouth firmly set. He wore his green velvet riding-dress and a plain cravat of Frisian needlework. He had no sword, for M. de Witt held that none save a soldier should go armed.

There was recalled to the Princess Amalia the image of another young man as she had seen him in his hunting dress, eighteen years ago, the last Stadtholder, not much older than his son was now, like him in features and in pride, on the eve, he believed, of absolute power.

The Princess could remember how he had bent his whip in his hand and spoken of “these presumptuous burghers!”

A week afterwards he lay dead of the smallpox in Guelders, and the triumphant States were casting a medal to celebrate their deliverance; representing the Stadtholder as Phæton, with the motto: “Magnis excidit ausis.”

“By his great designs he destroyed himself.”

The Princess repeated the words to herself with a shiver, and the tears ran down her cheeks.

The parrot, turning himself in his ring, suddenly gave a loud and hoarse cry, as if tired of the silence.

William glanced up at him, then round at the Princess, who was hastily drying her eyes.

“I must be returning,” he said.

“So soon?” she asked in a trembling voice. “Such a little while, and we have talked nothing but politics—will you not stay to dinner?”

“Madame, I cannot—I am forbidden to be long abroad without M. Van Ghent,” answered William sombrely. “And since I do not choose to ask a favour or incur the suspicions of M. de Witt I am as restricted as a prisoner.”

The Princess rose, raising moist and appealing eyes.

“You only came to tell me I had angered you!” she complained.

“I came to discover what M. de Witt had said, Madame. I do not blame you; there is no use in thinking of it any more, only, I entreat you, do not see him again.”

“Since he is more than a match for me?” sighed the Princess. “Ah, you know a great deal for your age.”

She was a gracious and charming lady, she adored him, and she was his father’s mother, but she had delivered his town of Orange to the French and she had delivered him to the States General. William could not forgive these things. He had against her, also, her quarrels with the proud young mother he had worshipped, and her constant coquettings with the republican party. But he constrained himself to forbear with her now, endured her anxieties over his health, promised to write to her and send Mr. Bromley with messages; even took her caresses, let her fold her perfumed arms about him and again kiss his forehead.

She went to the window and watched him ride off through the rain; Mr. Bromley, blonde and fresh-faced, waving his hat to her. She had been told that Oliver Cromwell had said: “This William, son of the late King’s daughter, will, if he lives, be heard of.”

The words occurred to her now, with a mingling of pride and pain. She also was often lonely.

M. Simon Simonides, one of the clergy who made the pulpit the platform of opposition to the Government of John de Witt, arrived at the “Huis ten bosch” almost before the Prince had ridden out of sight under the dripping trees. He was a favourite with the Princess. Amalia of Solms, who was always served on gold plate, and the Calvinist pastor who lived on a hundred gulden a year, had much in common. She greeted him warmly, telling him that her grandson had just left.

“I would I had met him, Your Highness,” answered the pastor, deeply disappointed.

“You do not know him, of course,” she remarked.

“I know of him, Madame. M. Triglandt, at present exiled in Utrecht, hath spoken to me of him.” The old man’s countenance flushed. “I have seen His Highness’ letters, I have seen his face in church. I know him a prince in a thousand; a nature as strong, as deep, as constant as any the Lord God ever made.”

CHAPTER X
AT THE HOUSE OF M. LE MARQUIS DE POMPONNE

Hyacinthe St. Croix, awaiting the pleasure of his employer, was agreeably diverted by the view he had of an inner room furnished in white and gold and occupied by two ladies.

The house of M. de Pomponne was situated in the outskirts of the Hague, and transformed into as much resemblance to a French château as taste and money could accomplish.

The chamber in which St. Croix found himself was hung with fine Flemish tapestry, representing the legend of St. Ursula, and divided from the other apartment by carved doors that stood open, revealing an elegant room furnished in Spanish leather and tulip wood, and lit by the soft radiance of a crystal lamp.

Seated by the bright fire was a dark-haired lady in a brown velvet gown, engaged in making lace. St. Croix knew her for the Marquise de Pomponne; the interest of his gaze was all for her companion.

She sat by the tapestry-covered window, a Chinese table before her, on which stood a chess-board set with scarlet and ivory pieces.

Her profile, face and figure were towards St. Croix. She seemed absorbed in some problem that she had set herself, for she did not raise her eyes from the chess-board, and her only movement came when she lifted her slender hand to change one of the white or red men.

Her delicate features, the knot of her golden hair, the slender lines of her figure in its tight blue gown were shown up distinctly by the dark background.

St. Croix, under cover of the space between them, stared at her boldly.

She was known to him by reputation, and he had seen her once before riding with de Pomponne on the Voorhout.

Glad was he of the chance to scrutinise her curiously at his ease, for she had a name powerful at Versailles. She was a woman he might be glad to have a word from, but he was well aware that her profession was nevertheless the same as his own, and that if she were more successful it was largely because she was less scrupulous.

He had heard her history, more than once, for it made a piquant story,—one not in the least to her credit, and containing incidents that it had needed a clever woman to get the better of, even at the Court of France.

He wondered what use de Pomponne could have for this lady at the Hague. The United Provinces seemed a field where her talents could find but little scope.

The entrance of M. de Pomponne disturbed both his reflections and his study of the slender lady with the chessmen.

The Marquis was not in the best of humours. He nodded to his visitor and flung himself into a chair, biting his glove.

His first remark was to complain that the candles were in need of snuffing. A servant was summoned and this remedied, then he deigned to look at St. Croix.

“This tool of yours, this Van Mander, has turned out very ill.”

St. Croix flushed.

“There has been no harm, Monsieur,” he said, secretly nettled.

“I am not so sure—first he returns you my letter to the Prince——”

St. Croix was surprised.

“You said, Monseigneur, that His Highness had explained he must avoid even the appearance of an intrigue.”

“Well, well,” the Marquis brought his hand down impatiently on the table,—“now I hear he has entered the Prince’s service.”

“But he is not to remain at the Hague,” replied St. Croix eagerly. “No, Monseigneur, that could not be under the very eyes of M. de Witt—he is to be sent to Brandenburg to join M. Bentinck at the Elector’s court.”

“Who told you so?”

“The man himself, Monsieur.”

“Then he is still in communication with you?”

“I see him occasionally.”

“But he is of no use to us?”

St. Croix shrugged his shoulders.

“I cannot tell.”

“It is your business to find out,” answered de Pomponne arrogantly.

“Only I ask you, Monseigneur, what can one do with these Hollanders? I have had this man in play for years, but——” he shrugged his shoulders.

“He is too much for you—which is a pity, for if you could have managed him he would have been very useful.”

“He was inclined to deal with us once, certainly; now, however——”

“Well, what has happened to him now?” demanded the Marquis sharply.

“He appears to be infatuated with the Prince of Orange.”

M. de Pomponne considered a moment.

“The Prince is friendly with us,” he said at length, narrowing his fine dark eyes.

“Many of his followers do not know how friendly, Monseigneur.”

The Marquis smiled.

“Mon Dieu, that is what I would like to know myself,” he said,—“how friendly.”

“A matter you cannot discover, Monseigneur, I cannot hope to.”

M. de Pomponne leant on the table, the candlelight full on his handsome, florid face, his glittering, splendid clothes.

“It must be discovered,” he said, and took his chin in his hand thoughtfully.

St. Croix glanced past him, through the open door, at the distant lady in blue.

“His Highness hath not shown himself unfriendly.”

The Marquis shrugged his shoulders.

“He is politic, extraordinarily prudent for his age. I saw him the other day. He was courteous, protested his duty to His Majesty; still, he refuses our help?”

“He fears to compromise himself in the eyes of M. de Witt,” said Hyacinthe St. Croix instantly.

“You have gained nothing from this Van Mander as to the Prince’s actual thoughts?”

“No, he is no way in his intimacy; the Prince has hardly spoken to him.”

“What we need is to gain some one in his confidence.”

“I fear it is impossible, Monseigneur,” answered St. Croix. “I believe his best friends are M. Triglandt, a fanatical Calvinist——”

“His former tutor.”

“—whom it would be folly to approach——”

“Naturally—and the other?”

“M. Bentinck, at Brandenburg.”

“It would be no use meddling with him——”

“There is the Princess.”

“She knows no more than I, neither does M. Zuylestein.” The Marquis frowned thoughtfully. “I am baffled at every turn; I have nothing to send to His Majesty, nothing, and I know not how to act. Before I help place the Orange party in power I must be assured that they will serve me when they have arrived at it.”

“The Prince could never stand alone, and where else should he find support?” returned St. Croix.

“I do not know—but he plays a deep game, this last move shows it.”

“Some say he has but damaged himself, since he provoked such severity from M. de Witt.”

“That very severity works to his ends since it further estranges the people from M. de Witt,” answered the Marquis. “We may look out for a revolution, it is very plain.… That is not the point. The question is, what will this youth do when he obtains the power?”

St Croix lowered his voice—

“If any can discover, you have one in this house——”

The Marquis glanced at him.

“You mean Madame Lavalette?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“She is leaving for Spain in another week.” M. de Pomponne tapped his fine fingers on the table. “Besides—Mon Dieu, one has no chance.”

“There is the ball at the Binnenhof, on Friday, Monsieur.”

“It is not known if the Prince goes.”

“Van Mander told me—yes.”

“I wonder why?—I think he does nothing without a reason.”

“To show himself—to speak to the Deputies.”

The Marquis looked over his shoulder at the impassive figure of Madame Lavalette over her chess problem.

“He is a boy, Monsieur; in some things utterly untried.”

“I confess it had occurred to me—but,” de Pomponne shrugged his shoulders, “these Hollanders!—and the Prince is secretive—even for a Hollander.”

“Still, Monsieur, you can try.”

“You mean Madame Lavalette can try,” answered the Marquis.

“It would be my advice, Monseigneur.”

“Take most men—she would get more in five minutes than I in a fortnight,” de Pomponne admitted; “but whether this little Calvinist——”

“He is seventeen, Monsieur—it is not possible he should possess the wisdom of thrice his age.”

“Well, we will put him to the test;” the Marquis gave his indolent smile and pushed back his chair.

Hyacinthe St. Croix rose.

“I will send you a ticket for the ball,” said the Marquis. “You had better be there.”

“Thank you, Monseigneur.”

St. Croix bowed till his yellow, frizzled hair fell over his face.

De Pomponne gave him a nod and a wave of a plump hand, which careless dismissal was all that he deigned.

When St. Croix had gone he leant forward and looked into the inner room.

His wife had left it, Madame Lavalette sat alone, fingering the red and white pieces. The Marquis de Pomponne rose and walked slowly over to her.

She turned on him large, deep blue and languishing eyes.

“I have just solved my problem,” she said in a low and pretty voice.

“And I, Madame, want you to help me solve mine.”

“Ah?” She sank back in her stiff chair, and taking up the red king turned him about in her fingers.

The Marquis leant carelessly against the carved window frame.

“You overheard, perhaps, what I was saying to Monsieur St. Croix?”

“No, Monsieur.”

She glanced up. Her fair and shining hair was waved simply round her oval face and caught on her neck with a pearl comb; a few long ringlets fell on to her deep lace collar. Her face had a soft, almost plaintive expression, her mouth was small and wistful.

“Well,” said the Marquis, “I will desire you to attend the ball at the Binnenhof.”

“Monsieur,” she answered, “I have M. de Louvois’ commands to go to Spain.”

“But you may do me this service first, Madame la Duchesse.”

“What is the problem and the service, Monsieur?”

The Marquis, looking down at her indolently, frowned now discontentedly.

“The problem is the Prince of Orange, Madame—and the service——”

She interrupted with the slightest sparkle of malice in her tone—

“You call me in when you have failed—what would M. de Louvois say?”

M. de Pomponne answered in a vexed tone—

“I wish M. de Louvois was here doing my work and I at Versailles doing his, for, Mon Dieu! one might as well be sent on an embassy to the fishes as be asked to come into exile here where one’s health is ruined by damp, one’s temper by Leyden Logic—where the only amusement is the contemplation of Dutch virtue.”

“It is the virtue that is the difficulty,” smiled Madame Lavalette. “They are a quite impossible people—that is why, Monsieur, I am going to Spain—but you——?”

“I!” he answered impatiently. “It is like trying to negotiate with a lot of frogs, cold and stupid. When you have got through their formalities they start on their religion, and when they have finished with that they freeze into a silence——”

“That you want me to endeavour to break?”

“I should be your debtor for life, Madame.”

She raised her brows.

“But, my friend, what do you think I can do?”

The Marquis knew that she had already failed to obtain even an audience of M. de Witt, though she had come to the Hague with the object of persuading him to the concessions required by M. de Louvois with regard to the herring fisheries; her question was, therefore, pertinent enough.

“I am thinking of the Prince.”

Madame Lavalette showed some impatience.

“I am tired of the whole country, its psalm-singing burghers and its frogs—I wish to get away.”

“Madame, the ball is on Friday, it would not detain you—and the Prince is different from these others.”

“He does not interest me.”

“Have you seen him?”

She shook her fair head—

“He is kept too close.”

“Well, when you see him, and speak to him, you will be interested, Madame.”

She replaced the red king on the board.

“Why?”

“He is an enigma.”

Madame looked up. De Pomponne had piqued her curiosity and her vanity, as he intended.

“You think I can solve this enigma?”

The Marquis smiled.

“If any one can, Madame.”

“I wonder?” she mused languidly, then she rose with a soft sound of silks.

“What do you want me to do?”

“To draw from the Prince something of his designs, something of his feelings towards France. In a word, Madame, to discover that which I have failed to discern—what manner of stuff we have there. If he worked with us, he would, as His Majesty’s cousin, be of immense use; he could, without much difficulty, be placed at the head of the State——”

“Oh, I know the position quite well,” she interrupted. “Considering that you have talked nothing else since I have been at the Hague, I should have it by heart; but, Mon Dieu, whether I care to meddle is another matter.”

She crossed to the fireplace and rested the tip of her blue shoe on the brass curb.

“It will be very little trouble to you, Madame, and a vast service to me.”

The Duchess looked at him over her shoulder with a little laugh.

“My good de Pomponne, this country is unnerving you!”

The Marquis did not deny it.

“I always protested against the appointment, as you must remember, Madame.”

“But M. de Louvois was obdurate.”

“As he always is,” grumbled de Pomponne.

Madame Lavalette tapped her chin with the tips of her feather fan.

“The Prince hates women, I think,” she said, “and all manner of frivolities——”

“He is as austere as John de Witt … but a great deal younger.”

“And not so confirmed in severity?” She smiled and raised a face that was glowing a golden rose-colour in the radiance of the fire. “Maybe he hath lacked opportunity,” she added. “Had he even the nature of a rake he could hardly have shown it under M. de Witt’s guardianship.”

“Mon Dieu, no!”

The Duchess looked thoughtfully into the clear flames.

She was angry with M. de Witt for having refused her an opportunity to execute her mission. Did she succeed in drawing the Prince of Orange she might avenge herself on the severe Grand Pensionary, and not wholly fail towards M. de Louvois. She foresaw that let M. de Witt once see her even speaking to William, he would take care no other chance would be given for the continuance of her intrigues, for he knew both her character and her mission.

But Madame Lavalette decided she might be careless there, for she was leaving Holland. She could also rely on accomplishing much in a short time.

She was not generally unsuccessful.

The thought of a youthful and royal Scipio was not displeasing to her vanity; and to play Cleopatra to an Augustus of seventeen seemed to the Duchess both safe and amusing.

She turned her languishing eyes on de Pomponne’s handsome, indolent face.

“Get me a ticket for the ball at the Binnenhof, Monseigneur,” she said.

CHAPTER XI
THE BALL IN THE BINNENHOF

“You are disappointed?” inquired Mr. Bromley.

Florent Van Mander answered slowly—

“I should have liked to stay in the Hague.”

“But you see it is impossible,” the Englishman assured him, with frank friendliness. “M. de Witt hath already spoken to His Highness about the harbouring of any who forsake his service,—and, indeed, the Prince is scarcely free to choose his household.”

Florent was silent. His desire was to serve the Prince personally, to have some chance of winning his favour, to be in the thick of events at the Hague, the seat of action.

Brandenburg seemed far away, and he had no interest in M. Bentinck. It was not for this that he had left John de Witt; but, having burnt his bridges behind him, there was nothing to do save to go on.

Mr. Bromley saw by his face he was not pleased.

“It shows His Highness thinks something of you, M. Mander,” he remarked, “that he puts himself to this trouble; and M. Bentinck is his best friend.”

They stood in one of the bare ante-chambers of the Prince’s Palace. M. Van Ghent had allowed William to see the secretary he was sending to the Elector’s court, and Florent awaited his audience.

He would rather have been alone or silent; but Matthew Bromley’s pleasant manners would not tolerate pauses. He snuffed the candles, pulled the dark curtains closer, and remarked that it was cold.

“And the night of the ball at the Binnenhof.”

“The Prince is going?” asked Florent.

“Yes,” Bromley answered, with some reserve.

The ball was in honour of the wedding of one of M. de Witt’s cousins; William’s invitation had been a command.

Florent looked at the Englishman keenly.

“You are very devoted to His Highness, are you not?” he asked curiously.

“I am,” said Matthew Bromley simply.

“But you were in M. de Witt’s employ——”

“Only before I knew the Prince.”

“That is what I mean,”—Florent spoke quickly,—“before you knew the Prince. He cannot do for you what M. de Witt could, indeed he can do nothing at all; why are you devoted to him?”

Mr. Bromley’s fair face took on a puzzled expression, he reflected, hesitated.

“I do not know,” he said at last.

Florent drew a deep breath.

“Neither do I.… I also have left M. de Witt, and, in a way, ruined myself, and I do not know why.”

“I like His Highness,” went on Mr. Bromley, still trying to honestly answer the question. “Why are you devoted to him? But every one who comes near him would serve him to the death,” again he reflected; again he added, “I do not know why.”

He glanced up at Florent’s grave face and laughed.

“I have no interest in your politics, you see, Mynheer; for me one is like another. I think M. de Witt is a great and good man, and I really know nothing about the Prince’s character or designs—but, well, I just serve him.… I would follow him anywhere.”

Florent walked up and down the chamber. He wore his dark travelling clothes, for he was impatient, since he must go, to be off at once. The place had become intolerable of late, since he was always afraid of meeting some of his old companions, or even M. de Witt himself.

Mr. Bromley rubbed his hands together. The large, princely, but bare, room was certainly both dreary and cold, scantily furnished, and ill lit by the two-branched candlesticks on the mantelshelf.

The pause was broken by the quick opening of the door.

Both the men looked round.

It was the Prince, though Florent did not instantly know him.

He wore a long dark mantle and a plumed hat. He did not uncover; he exacted as if by instinct the privileges of royalty, and his household conceded them. Despite M. de Witt he was surrounded by a court.

“Mynheer Van Mander,” he said, with his usual slowness.

Florent flushed and bowed—over low for a good republican.

The Prince came down the long chamber.

“Are you prepared to go to Brandenburg?” he asked.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

William made no answer, and Florent glanced, half covertly, at his face.

The Prince was looking thoughtfully at the floor, his features almost concealed by the shadow of his hat. Under his mantle could be seen the soft colour of his pale violet coat; one of his bare hands rested on his cravat, in the other he held a letter.

He spoke without looking up—

“I do not know that you gain much by the change of masters, Mynheer Van Mander. It is very quiet at my uncle the Elector’s court, and M. Bentinck can only pay you moderately.”

“I have decided to accept the post, Your Highness.”

The Prince slowly raised the eyes he knew so well how to use, and let them rest a moment on Florent’s face.

“I can promise nothing to any one,” he said. “So if this is to worship the rising sun—think a little.”

Under William’s glance Florent’s first flush deepened.

“I shall be glad in any way to serve Your Highness,” he answered awkwardly.

William faintly smiled, and, half mockingly, put to him the question he had put to Matthew Bromley—

“Why?”

Florent faced the compelling gaze fixed on him, and found, this time, an answer.

“Your Highness makes me feel as I have never felt till now.”

“That is curious,” said the Prince, “for I have seen very little of you, Mynheer Van Mander.”

“But I have seen enough of Your Highness,” replied Florent.

The Prince was silent. His bearing seemed, if anything, to repel this homage, but Florent was sufficiently pleased that it was not utterly refused.

His annoyance at being sent to Brandenburg, his regrets for M. de Witt’s comfortable service, had vanished when he found himself in the presence of the Prince.

William’s subtle but amazingly powerful personal influence outweighed all considerations.

He awaited his instructions. He also had caught the trick of the Court; he followed Mr. Bromley’s example and waited for the Prince to address him.

William looked down again and coughed, then handed Florent the letter.

“This is for M. Bentinck, it is your introduction and your credentials. If you wish to serve me you will serve M. Bentinck—it is the same thing.”

Florent bent his head and placed the letter inside his breast pocket.

“M. Renswoude will meet you downstairs and give you the money for your journey,” continued the Prince. “Good-bye, Mynheer Van Mander.”

That was all.

William uttered none of those things that Florent, up to the last even, might have been expecting. Neither thanks nor caution did the Prince give him; did not bid him be faithful or discreet, yet expressed no trust in him; gave no explanation of, and passed no comment on, his choice of him for this service.

He walked slowly towards the door, and Florent, in leaving the room, must pass him.

The Prince suddenly held out his hand and smiled. Florent felt the blood glow in his face. He went on one knee and raised the soft, white, and beautiful hand to his lips.

William wore a diamond ring, and the lace round his wrist was faintly perfumed. Florent noticed this; it was part of the appeal of rank and tradition, the fascination of royalty.

When he rose the Prince was no longer smiling, but Florent was amply repaid for any sacrifice he had made in joining his service.

William turned away as he left the room and walked back to where Mr. Bromley waited.

“That man can be faithful,” he said as the door closed on Florent.

Mr. Bromley made a little grimace.

“He has not been faithful to M. de Witt, Highness.”

“But he will be loyal to me,” answered the Prince carelessly.

“You have the trick of it, Highness,” admitted Matthew Bromley.

William frowned. Mr. Bromley guessed him to be in an exceeding ill-humour and ventured on no more.

M. Van Ghent sent up to say he was waiting for His Highness. The Prince discovered that he had forgotten his gloves, and Mr. Bromley went for them.

When he returned the Prince was still in his anteroom and M. Van Ghent still waiting below.

William took the gloves leisurely.

“What are these?” he asked.

They were a pair of white doeskin which Mr. Bromley had from the Prince’s valet; he said so.

William turned them over, then put one on.

“They are a misfit and of paltry quality,” he remarked. “Who bought them?”

M. Heenvliet, who had been sent by the Prince’s tutor, entering at the moment, interrupted—

“The coach is ready, Your Highness, and M. Van Ghent is waiting.”

William gave him a half glance.

“Why, so you said.” He turned to Mr. Bromley. “Fetch La Motte.”

Matthew Bromley hesitated; but there was a set to the Prince’s cleft chin intimating to those who knew him that his mood was to override opposition.

Mr. Bromley obeyed.

William pulled off the white glove, and when the valet entered the room turned to him angrily—

“Who bought these?”

“Mynheer Heenvliet, Highness.”

“How much was given for them?”

La Motte looked at M. Heenvliet.

“The gloves cost six gulden a pair, Highness,” said that gentleman, “and they are such as Your Highness hath often worn before.”

“My faith, no!” replied William. “I have never worn such gauntlets. Six gulden a pair! I do not know what is the motive of this economy but I will not endure it, Mynheer.”

Kerckhove Lord of Heenvliet flushed.

“Your clothes are bought under the approval of M. Van Ghent, Highness, and the authority of Mynheer de Witt.”

The Prince’s eyes were dangerously bright.

“All of which makes no difference, Mynheer; my income is sufficient to dress me better than a German count.”

Mr. Bromley held his peace. It seemed to him that the gloves were well enough, and that the Prince wished to provoke his hated tutor, since His Highness lost no possible opportunity for annoying M. Van Ghent.

“This is merely vexatious, Highness,” said M. Heenvliet, “and I must again remind you that for a trifling affair you keep M. Van Ghent waiting.”

“It is no trifling affair, Mynheer,” answered William, “to find myself on every hand ill served.”

“That is not just, Highness.”

The Lord of Heenvliet was forcing back his temper.

William flung the gloves down on a chair.

“I do not intend to wear them, Mynheer, either to-night or any other time.”

M. Heenvliet bit his lip and turned to the valet. “Bring His Highness another pair of gloves.” He pulled out his watch impatiently, “We are already late.”

The Prince gave him a malicious look, and half smiled; to arrive late would be to solve the ugly question of precedence and would also mean a slight to M. de Witt.

“It is your place, Mynheer,” he answered, “to see that I am better furnished.”

He had never liked M. Heenvliet, who leant to the side of the Grand Pensionary.

“La Motte is a wearisome time,” remarked the first gentleman-in-waiting to cover a somewhat heavy pause.

“He finds it difficult to discover anything wearable, Mynheer,” answered the Prince calmly.

And to point his dislike of M. Heenvliet he approached Mr. Bromley, turning his back on the other.

“Are not you cold, Bromley? There should have been a fire here.”

“Indeed I think so, Highness,” answered the Englishman, who was not cold in the least, but who would have seconded the Prince in anything, even at the risk of his own disgrace.

It seemed that M. Heenvliet was about to answer this thrust at the management of the Palace, when M. Van Ghent entered with a vexed and flushed countenance.

“What is the cause of this delay?” he demanded, looking about him.

The Prince was coldly silent.

“His Highness complains of the gloves brought him,” answered M. Heenvliet, “and takes this occasion to complain of the way in which he is served.”

M. Van Ghent fixed his eyes on the Prince.

“Have I been kept waiting for this?”

“For this, Mynheer,” replied William.

The Prince’s governor appeared both angered and agitated. William’s dislike made his post a burden.

“M. de Witt will be displeased at our late arrival—and what excuse shall I make?”

William gave him a haughty look.

“Tell him I will not wear gloves at six gulden a pair, Mynheer; and that till I have a voice in the choice of my personal appointments I shall continue to be dissatisfied with them.”

M. Van Ghent, goaded, turned, with a weakness that further earned William’s contempt, on M. Heenvliet.

“Why is not His Highness consulted?”

“His Highness is shown the accounts,” answered the unfortunate gentleman-in-waiting.

“The accounts!” repeated His Highness sardonically. “’Tis the difference between them and what I am served with that I complain of.”

M. Heenvliet with difficulty controlled a hot answer.

M. Van Ghent picked up the gloves.

“What does Your Highness find fault with?” he asked.

“No gentleman in the Hague would wear them,” replied the Prince; “and I complain, Mynheer, of the insult offered me in providing them.”

“The gloves were bought after the pattern of others that have been to His Highness’ liking,” protested M. Heenvliet.

La Motte entered with another pair, white, trimmed with silver, that the Prince deigned to approve.

As he drew them on, his glance travelled from one to another with a malicious pleasure in the general discomfiture.

M. Van Ghent reprimanded M. Heenvliet, who in turn blamed the valet; Mr. Bromley looked uncomfortable.

William was the one unmoved; he even slightly smiled to see how red and annoyed was M. Van Ghent, and when he reflected how late they would be at the Binnenhof his smile deepened.

He would have refused to attend the ball at all had he dared; but the humiliation of his forced appearance was softened by the thought of a late arrival that would annoy M. de Witt, and cheat M. de Montbas and M. de Pomponne of the triumph of precedence.

“It is a pity to keep the horses waiting in the wet, Mynheer,” he remarked as he finished lacing his gloves. “I am ready.”

M. Van Ghent had to make the best of this, as he had to make the best of numerous encounters in which His Highness was invariably victorious.

The Prince made another difficulty about the coach, wishing to ride alone with Mr. Bromley. But here M. Van Ghent was firm; he trusted neither William nor Matthew Bromley, and himself accompanied His Highness.

It was a foggy night, a little rain falling, and the Prince avenged himself on his tutor by insisting on having both the coach windows down. He declared he could not breathe with them closed, and M. Van Ghent had to submit and allow the damp and the mist to enter, to his great discomfort. He shivered in his mantle; and William coughed in a way that seemed to show he did not greatly benefit by the arrangement himself, but he remained resolutely by the window, looking out at the streets of the Hague, his back towards his tutor and the mist gathering in drops of moisture on his velvet coat.

M. Van Ghent, who by no means enjoyed thrusting his company where it was so obviously resented, was greatly pleased when they reached the Binnenhof.

They had some difficulty in making their way through the coaches that blocked the courtyard. William noted with satisfaction, and M. Van Ghent with annoyance, that theirs was the last arrival.

It was on Mr. Bromley’s arm that the Prince leant in entering.

M. Van Ghent had no choice but to follow.

The Binnenhof was brilliantly lit, and decorated with an air of solid, unpretentious wealth characteristic of the United Provinces.

The Truce Saloon, built by the last Stadtholder, had been arranged as a ballroom.

This was a pleasant chamber. A row of handsome windows overlooked the Vyver, giving in summer a charming view over the water and as far as M. de Witt’s house in the Kneuterdyk Avenue; in autumn only the dim shapes of trees and the swans on the island were visible through the almost perpetual mist.

Now red velvet curtains screened the night, and a hundred wax candles gave a soft and lovely light.

It was an historic chamber also, and one that commemorated the dearly bought freedom of the Republic.

The pride of the Assembly and the fantasy of the artist had designed a symbolic decoration: circular ceiling paintings represented the different nations gazing down at the spectacle of the regained liberty of the United Provinces. A fine, warmly flushed picture of “Peace” faced the door, and above the deep fireplace its companion “War.”

In the centre of the ceiling “England” looked down, and appeared to be coming down too, since the foremost cavalier of the group had placed a red-stockinged leg outside his frame; which was good painting and better symbolism, said some sourly. Twenty years had passed, and there had begun to be reason to doubt the friendly “onlooking” of England. Her regard appeared of late to be filled with coldness and envy.

France, represented by an effeminate cavalier, had its place above the picture of “Peace.”

Every one agreed that as for symbolism this was not so good.

In the antechamber of the Truce Saloon, a fine apartment in panelled wood, the Prince found the Grand Pensionary.

With M. de Witt were M. Vivien, his brother-in-law and Pensionary of Dordt, Sir William Temple, and M. de Montbas.

M. Van Ghent stepped up to these gentlemen; but William’s hand tightened on Matthew Bromley’s arm and held him back.

The Englishman was quick to understand. His Highness’ gaze was resting on M. de Montbas, who wore the splendid uniform of the Captain General and was girded with the sword that meant command of all the forces of the United Provinces.

A shiver went through the Prince’s slender body; after a moment he left his gentleman and came forward.

M. de Witt greeted him quietly.

“I am sorry you are late, Highness,” he added quietly.

William gave his reply with perfect composure—

“It was greatly against my wish, Mynheer,” he said, and he spoke softly and even smiled.

“I will believe you, Highness.”

The Prince glanced at M. de Witt’s companions. He did not dislike Sir William Temple, but the others were his avowed opponents.

Several members of the Assembly advanced to greet him. He had to put a strain on himself and speak to them graciously, but when he came to M. de Montbas it seemed that his control would fail him.

This man had been in his father’s employ, had deserted him for the republican party. He had been one of those who held the gates of Amsterdam against the late Stadtholder, one of those who had spoken most hotly against him.

Later M. de Montbas had made overtures to the widowed Princess; they had been haughtily spurned, though Amalia of Solms remained inclined to encourage a person of so much influence.

To complete the bitter hatred in which William held him, de Montbas was a man of wealth and abilities, and now in possession of those offices that were his birthright—the birthright of the heir of Nassau.

As de Montbas approached him the Prince perceptibly drew back, and his pallor disappeared under a slow blush.

He straightened himself, pressed his handkerchief to his lips, and eyed the Count with an expression of scorn and dislike not to be concealed nor mistaken.

No one there could guess what throbbing rage filled his proud soul that he had to stand thus, swordless, before his father’s enemies—a show for those who were both his inferiors and his masters; but all could see the sudden expression that sprang into his eyes, and all were startled.

M. de Montbas, ill at ease, made a mistake. He resorted to a courtesy not untouched by cringing; it was the one thing above all others to rouse William’s fiercest scorn.

“I am glad to have this opportunity of paying my duty to Your Highness,” he said, and bowed like a courtier.

William smiled bitterly.

“Your duty!” he repeated. “Your duty, M. le Comte!”

Then he turned on his heel and passed into the ballroom.

M. de Montbas, flushing hotly, looked at M. de Witt, and the Grand Pensionary frowned.

It fell to Sir William’s easy tact to break the pause.

“I think the dance has come to an end, sir; are we too grave to attend the ladies?”

Secretly he admired the Prince; and his admiration grew with his observation. His eyes twinkled now with enjoyment of M. de Montbas’ discomfiture. M. de Witt was quick enough to see where his sympathies lay, but he accepted the diversion of Sir William’s remark, for the Prince’s daring could not be publicly noticed.

M. de Witt, composed in mien but with a troubled heart, followed into the ballroom.

Most noticeable as he entered was the figure of the young man in the long violet coat, his bright, heavy hair glittering like copper in the candlelight.

He was speaking to the Princess Dowager; above them glowed the picture of “Peace.”

“Your charge troubles you, Mynheer?” said Sir William in his soft, lazy voice, after watching de Witt a moment.

“In so far that I do not understand him, yes,” answered the Grand Pensionary.

The company, walking to and fro in their velvet and satin dresses, shut out the long violet coat and William’s slender figure.

“He is a remarkable young man.” The Englishman spoke reflectively.

“He is like his father,” responded John de Witt.

“With a difference.” Sir William smiled. “The late Stadtholder failed—this Prince, I think, would not.”

CHAPTER XII
THE SPY OF FRANCE

The Princess beckoned her grandson with her long gold fan.

“You have been talking to Madame Van Decken the whole evening,” she said.

William, having advanced beside her chair, waited, without any show of interest, for the Princess to enlarge on her remark.

“Madame Van Decken is quite the plainest lady in the room.”

“Is she?”

Amalia of Solms half laughed.

“Why, she squints!”

“Yes, I noticed that,” answered William; “but she is very intelligent.”

The Princess looked at him in a half troubled way.

“At your age!” she exclaimed. “There are half a hundred ladies awaiting your request for a dance——”

“I shall not dance at all,” he interrupted. “What are we here for, Madame? Merely to grace M. de Witt’s triumph.”

The Princess gave a sigh that flashed the diamonds on her purple bodice.

“I wish you would not take it so bitterly.… M. de Witt means to be courteous.”

“What courtesy was it that forced me and M. de Montbas to meet?”

“He wishes to reconcile you.”

William smiled scornfully.

The fiddles were tuning up and the dancers taking their places on the polished floor.

“You make a mistake,” said Amalia of Solms. “These women have some influence—they have a right to feel slighted. You should take more pains to please.”

The Prince made no reply. Amalia of Solms cast a half timid glance at his composed profile, and the fan fluttered nervously on her velvet lap.

“You think that I am a silly old woman, no doubt, William, but believe me I am right. M. de Pomponne said the same to me—that you kept yourself too close.”

The violins struck up a French sarabande, and the dancers began to move slowly to the stately melody.

The Prince looked across the ballroom to where M. de Witt, noticeable in black velvet, stood in the doorway talking to a little group of gentlemen, and so absorbed was he in his scrutiny that he did not hear the Princess rise.

She had to touch him on the arm to attract his attention.

“M. de Pomponne, William.”

He turned quickly.

The Princess swept a courtesy before she sank again into her gilt chair, and the Marquis, gorgeously dressed in crimson satin, bowed till his long love-locks hid his face.

“Is not the Prince dancing, Highness?” he asked.

William’s intent gaze was now fixed on the Frenchman; he said nothing.

The Princess shrugged her shoulders, half vexed.

“You must ask him, Monsieur.”

The Marquis smiled.

“There is a lady present whom I have promised to present to His Highness——”

“One of your countrywomen, Monsieur?” asked the Princess.

“Yes, Madame.”

“I shall be honoured, Monsieur.” The Prince’s tone was quiet.

“I refer to the Duchesse de Lavalette—will Your Highness accompany me?”

Something to his grandmother’s surprise William went instantly. The Princess watched the two figures turn out of the ballroom with some satisfaction. She had always considered the French alliance her grandson’s best hope.

The antechamber was full of the music of the sarabande that came through the open doors, the music and the sound of the ladies’ dresses as they swept the polished floor.

M. de Pomponne stepped quickly up to one of them who sat alone on a carved settee.

“Madame la Duchesse, I present to you His Highness the Prince of Orange—Monseigneur, Madame Lavalette.”

She rose, and each took a swift look at the other.

William saw a woman of a dazzling fairness of hair and complexion, and bright blue eyes, wearing a low-cut and rich gown of green velvet; and Madame Lavalette beheld a slight youth owning a remarkable face, plainly dressed, and of a haughty demeanour.

She gave him a glance of pretty hesitation.

“Alas, I have not your language, Monseigneur!”

“I can speak yours, Madame,” he answered in French.

“Ah, I have heard that Your Highness is an accomplished linguist.”

“It is not an accomplishment, Madame, but a necessity.”

“Many princes do not think so.”

Her eyes flattered him though her lips were unsmiling.

“I do not speak as a prince, Madame.”

He was absolutely grave, and in no way discomposed by her splendid presence.

“As a diplomat, then?”

“As one training to be of service to his country, Madame.”

Her delicate eyebrows slightly arched.

“Do you wish your gifts to be of service to the Republic, Prince?”

“The United Provinces are the Republic, Madame, and the United Provinces are my country.”

Madame Lavalette unfurled her fan.

“It is generous of you, Monseigneur, to be patriotic under the present form of government——”

“Why, Madame?”

She found him at once more difficult than she had expected and it roused her.

“Oh, perhaps it is not generous, but politic,” she said, with a change of tone. Then she laughed and looked at him straightly. “Personally I do not like M. de Witt,” she declared, with a charming air of frankness.

William raised his expressive eyes slowly.

“He is my best friend, Madame.”

The Duchess, gazing at him intently, read in his eyes the contradiction of his words.

“I see what you mean me to believe, Prince,” she murmured.

The second measure of the sarabande had begun; Madame Lavalette beat time to it with her fan on her delicate hand.

“It is a pretty melody—do you like music, Monseigneur?”

“I think it can be made useful, Madame.”

“That is a curious thing to say—you mean——?”

“In war,” he said.

She gave her rare, effective smile.

“And in peace?”

“It is not necessary, Madame.”

Now the Duchess sighed.

“You can say as much of all the arts—but Your Highness is not always so stern?”

“I am very ignorant on these matters, Madame,” he answered.

“You like gardening?” she asked, knowing he did.

“It is a pleasant recreation—and I think the building of houses a fair pastime for a gentleman.”

She flushed into enthusiasm.

“You should see Meudon, Marli, Versailles!” she cried. “You would appreciate them—palaces——”

He interrupted her.

“Such as I shall never achieve, Madame. My father built these modest rooms, nor am I like to build anything finer.”

She glanced at his grave young face.

“Now why?” she asked, her voice falling softly.

“Because I think to have other things to do, Madame.”

The sarabande had come to an end.

The Prince turned to his companion with a composed air of courtliness—

“May I lead you out for the next measure, Madame?”

“I shall be honoured, Monsieur.”

Her eyes added more. There was something in the very carriage of her body, as she bent towards him, her head slightly drooping, that was subtly flattering—the more so that it came from a beautiful woman to a youth. She was more deferential and charming than she had meant to be, for his grave coldness forced her to use her weapons.

“Seventeen!” she said to herself. “Mon Dieu, seventeen!”

The next dance was a minuet.

“The music by Lulli,” she informed the Prince, “and called ‘Le Temple de la Paix’—take me to represent France, Monseigneur, and the title as an omen——”

“Of peace, Madame?”

“Do you not care to think of peace, Monsieur?”

“I am, Madame, in no position to think of war.”

As they passed into the ballroom she shot a look at M. de Pomponne. The Prince was at least dancing with her, her eyes bid the Marquis take note of it.

He was not the only one to observe them. The Princess marked with satisfaction, and M. de Witt with uneasiness, the Prince’s partner for the minuet.

Happily la Lavalette was below the middle height, and William tall for his age, so she was able to rest lightly on his arm and look up to him with blue, languishing eyes that held a very flattering deference.

M. de Pomponne turned away to hide his smile; M. de Witt looked on sternly.

The Duchess glanced at the paintings round the ceiling.

“Your Highness likes history?” she asked. “You like to read it?”

“I would prefer to make it, Madame.”

She looked at him quickly.

“Your House has made it, Prince.”

He smiled.

“Madame, it is through my House that we are here now,—it is through my ancestors, and by what they have done, that the United Provinces are a kingdom.”

“The country hath been ungrateful, Prince.”

His smile made her air of sympathy seem foolish.

“You think so?” he said.

She was piqued by his sovereign manner.

“Do not you, Monseigneur?” she retaliated with meaning.

“I think it remains to be proved, Madame la Duchesse.”

They stood by the open hearth, waiting for the dance to begin. She was very well aware of the curious eyes upon them, and of the cold regard of the Grand Pensionary.

The Prince appeared absolutely unconscious.

“M. de Witt does not dance, I see,” she remarked.

“He hath other things to think of, Madame.”

She gave him a grave but ardent look.

“Such as—revolutions?” she breathed.

“Maybe, Madame; the most securely placed will sometimes think of revolutions.”

Madame Lavalette was silent. De Pomponne had not prepared her for a youth so haughtily self-possessed, so (seemingly) impervious to flattery and enticements.

She knew of his upbringing in austere surroundings, she knew something of the Dutch stateliness of manner; but this perfect composure and gravity on the part of a Prince of seventeen were, nevertheless, a surprise.

Madame Lavalette was familiar with most of the Courts of Europe, and had considered herself equally familiar with most types of men—even men like John de Witt; such were rare, but she had met them.

But in William of Orange she found what she could not place or label. She went cautiously, a little bewildered, a little piqued, and more impressed by this boy’s personality than she would have cared to admit.

The musicians played the prelude; the couples took their places.

Madame Lavalette glanced again at the Marquis, who danced with Lady Temple, and he raised his brows and slightly shrugged his shoulders as if he commiserated her on an impossible task.

Sully’s lilting melody began.

The Prince danced as he rode, with consummate excellence, but, unlike his horsemanship, his dancing was without animation. It seemed to his partner that he was not listening to the music in the least nor thinking of her at all.

Once or twice he looked distinctly away from her, in a mournful, absent manner down the room; as if he looked through the dancers and saw something else beyond. When their hands touched she felt his cool fingers resting on hers as lightly as they might have rested on his gentleman’s shoulder.

She was silent until the elaborate figures had come to an end; then she laughed.

“Your Highness does not like dancing.”

He turned his great eyes on her.

“I have been clumsy, Madame?”

“No—you have it in your head—perfectly—Prince, not, I think, in the least in your heart.”

“That is probably true,” he replied gravely.

“It is a pity, Prince—for the ladies.” She suddenly laid her hand on his sleeve. “Whom will Your Highness dance with now?”

“I shall dance no more, Madame.”

“You are very severe, Monseigneur—or are you proud?”

“I am tired,” said William simply.

They returned slowly to the antechamber and reseated themselves on the carved seat where he had first found her.

Behind them a crescent of candles in a silver sconce lit her fair hair, her white shoulders, and the voluminous folds of her green velvet gown.

She unfurled her fan and gazed at herself in the little heart-shaped mirror in the centre of curling feathers.

“I think you are somewhat heartless,” she remarked. “Every lady in the ballroom wishes to dance with Your Highness—and I dare swear half of them are your admirers already.”

Glancing at him furtively she perceived that, in utter absence of vanity, he did not even colour.

“There are other cavaliers here, Madame.”

Madame Lavalette beat her little silver shoe on the gleaming floor.

“And so M. de Witt is your best friend?”

The sudden change of attack did not confuse him.

“I said so, Madame.”

“I know a better.”

She fixed her eyes boldly on his face and leant forward a little, holding the open fan.

William did not answer. He was looking away from her, through the doorway into the ballroom, where, under the picture of “War,” the Grand Pensionary conversed with M. de Pomponne.

“Your Highness can guess whom I mean,” breathed Madame Lavalette.

“Why, no, Madame.”

The fan fluttered and the mirror in the centre gave out golden rays as it caught the candlelight.

“Your cousin Louis, Highness,” she said under her breath.

Now he turned his head and fixed on her his compelling gaze.

“The King of France,” she repeated.

“I have always hoped to deserve His Majesty’s friendship,” said William formally.

Madame Lavalette fixed his eyes with her glance.

“Will you not be more frank with me, Prince?” she said in a low voice.

“In what manner, Madame?”

“Ah, you know,” she leant towards him, “I speak of the King of France—you know what he can do for you.…”

William moved his head so that the heavy auburn hair concealed his face. She thought that he still looked at M. de Witt.

For a moment she hesitated. But, after all, she might be fairly sure of him; it was boldness that was needed in dealing with such reserve, and boldness that M. de Pomponne lacked.

“His Majesty hath much influence in the United Provinces, Prince;” she raised her fan to her lips.

They were alone in the antechamber; from the ballroom they could be observed but not heard.

The Prince did not answer.

“More influence than you imagine, Highness, believe me.”

He moved, but did not look at her. Her eager scrutiny could gain nothing from his pale young face.

“I can credit it, Madame,” he said.

She ventured further.

“His Majesty is the most powerful king in the world, Highness, and if he wished a thing done no one could successfully oppose him.”

“It may very well be, Madame.”

“His Majesty is your very good friend, Highness.”

The Prince kept his eyes lowered, his head slightly turned from her scrutiny.

The Duchess continued—

“If the King willed your restoration, Prince, he could accomplish it.”

William answered calmly—

“Sometimes M. de Witt talks to me of politics, Madame—and from him I learn that the King of France is not friendly towards the United Provinces.”

“Not towards them or M. de Witt,” she answered swiftly, “but towards you—does not Your Highness understand?”

William looked up now.

“Scarcely, Madame.”

She was spurred to go further than ever de Pomponne had ventured.

“The King finds the United Provinces in his way, as you do, Highness; he finds, as you do, that M. de Witt must go. Your cause is one with His Majesty’s—say so, and the thing is done.”

She thought, but could not be sure, that he slightly drew himself away from her into the corner of the settee.

“His Majesty,” she continued, “has the power to put you where your father was——”

“And afterwards, Madame?” asked the Prince. “How should I repay His Majesty?”

Madame Lavalette began to be more sure of her ground.

“Your Highness,” she said softly, “would have the help of France in subduing an impudent and ungrateful country—Your Highness would be master of Holland——”

“Under King Louis,” added the Prince.

“Under the protection of France, Highness; His Majesty is already the dictator of Europe.”

It was a prospect calculated to dazzle one powerless and ambitious.

Madame Lavalette was pleased to see her words take effect. The Prince slowly coloured, and put his hand in an agitated manner to the lace on his breast.

“I understand you now, Madame.”

He gave her an extraordinary look, the meaning of which was beyond her.

“I never doubted your intelligence, Prince—and you did right to be cautious; but now I think we may speak more plainly.”

“M. de Pomponne hath hinted at this, Madame.”

“I do more than hint.”

The dance music floated in from the Truce Saloon, and the Duchess’ waving fan kept time to the slow melody.

“You have but to let His Majesty know your sentiments,” she urged.

William sat still, leaning against the arm of the settee, his right hand resting lightly on his breast.

His grey-green eyes were dark with feeling, and the flush still lingered in his cheeks. She was satisfied that she had touched him, and touched him deeply.

With some curiosity she waited for him to speak; he interested her. A smile touched her lips as she thought of the gravity of their converse and the twenty years between them.

He accepted her with amazing good faith; in some things he must be very simple. It was not displeasing to her to reflect that she was the same to him as the irreproachable dames of his own country, whose velvets swept the floor in the ballroom.

“Shall not M. de Pomponne convey some message of duty from Your Highness to His Majesty?” she asked to probe his silence.

The colour deepened in his face. Madame Lavalette wondered why.

“His Majesty would not value the duty of one as unimportant as myself, Madame.”

“You are His Majesty’s cousin, Prince, and he would restore you to those offices M. de Witt has usurped. Do I now speak open enough?”

“His Majesty would do this—on conditions.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“On easy ones.”

“Perhaps, Madame—I should find them outside my power to fulfil.”

Madame Lavalette laughed.

“Ah no! His Majesty thinks of a French match for you,”—she sought to still further dazzle him,—“he will restore the town of Orange——”

“In exchange for the liberty of the United Provinces,” interrupted William calmly. “Is not that, Madame, the price?”

“If you will put it so bluntly, Your Highness, then yes.”

The Prince was breathing rather quickly.

“There is one difficulty.”

“It can be overcome,” she answered, smiling.

“I do not think so.”

“What is it?”

He raised his beautiful eyes, they were almost unnaturally dark and bright—

“I am a Calvinist, Madame,” he said gravely.

Madame Lavalette dropped her fan on to her lap.

“Well?” she questioned.

“His Majesty is of the Romish faith.”

She bent her head.

“It is not a religion, Madame, beloved in the United Provinces.”

She made an effort to meet him in this new position.

“We do not talk of religions, Prince.”

His eyes narrowed; again he gave her that inscrutable glance.

“I talk of mine, Madame.”

“What has it to do with the matter in hand, Your Highness?”

To her further bewilderment he smiled, with composure, and, she thought, a touch of scorn.

“I believe, Madame, in predestination.”

“Your Highness is confusing me with Leyden Logic,” she answered; “it is not this we are speaking of——”

“It affects what we speak of, Madame.”

She bit her lip.

“How, Highness?”

“Because I do not believe, Madame, that I am predestined to be the tool of the King of France. The Princes of my House have left behind them records that teach me different aims and higher ambitions.”

With that he rose.

The pride and daring of this speech confounded her as if he had used sudden violence. The colour gathered in her cheeks and her blue eyes became bright and hard.

“You think, Madame, that I am impolitic,” said the Prince, who had now easily the mastery of the situation, “but while I am the subject of the Republic it is you who are impolitic to broach to me my cousin’s designs.”

She rallied herself as best she might from his unlooked-for defiance.

“Your Highness surprises me. Are you wise—are you in a position to take this tone to the King of France?”

William put his hand to his side where his sword should have been—

“I am grateful for his Majesty’s private friendship—but he mistakes my importance in the State. You should go, Madame, to M. de Witt.”

He gave her a glance that brought a flame into her blood, bent his head, and turned away.

Madame Lavalette sat as he had left her, her hands either side of her, on the settee, and the angry red in her face.

In a few moments M. de Pomponne came up. Seeing him she rose angrily.

“Ah, Madame,” said the Marquis softly, “you have been no more successful than I.”

She bit her full under-lip.

“He will not burn his fingers in any intrigue, that boy,” she answered; “and you are a fool, M. le Marquis, to meddle with him. What use is he to us?”

“He is too prudent.”

“Or too honest. A Calvinist—and tells me so—here. Quoted his House, Mon Dieu!… He might have been seventy—the other side of things.… His company hath frozen me—and heated me too.… I hate him. Take me home, Marquis.”

M. de Pomponne saw she was unusually angered; he pursed up his lips and shrugged his shoulders.

“The Prince will be glad of the offers he rejects now—in a while,” he answered.

She swung her fan to and fro.

“I would give something to be the one to master him.”

Then she laughed.

“If you do not get me out of this puritanical country, de Pomponne, I shall die of spleen.”

The Prince had returned to Amalia of Solms, who was conversing with Lady Temple.

“Good-night, Madame,” he said abruptly. “I am leaving.”

“So soon?” Her voice was touched with dismay.

Lady Temple moved away.

“Why should I stay?” asked William wearily.

The Princess changed the subject.

“What of Madame Lavalette?—I saw you dance with her. She is very beautiful and—influential.”

The Prince answered, still in that tired, absent way—

“She is old—a spy of Louis and stale at the game.”

The Princess was startled, both at his clear vision and his calm statement.

“Oh, be careful!” she whispered.

“I know no other word for spy, Madame.”

The Princess rose and touched her grandson’s shoulder.

“You frighten me, William.… Madame Lavalette represents France.”

The Prince put his hand to his forehead and answered in a low but moved tone—

“I listened to what she had to say.… She insulted me … like every one.” His eyes flashed bitterly. “Even Bromley thinks he serves the puppet of France.… And you, Madame——” He checked himself scornfully,—“But let it go.”

“I do not understand,” faltered the Princess.

“No one understands … save M. Triglandt.” He kissed her hand. “Good-night, Madame.”

She made confused protest, but he left her without further ceremony.

In the antechamber the Prince met the Grand Pensionary, his leave-taking was brief; M. de Witt received it coldly.

“The ball was in honour of my cousin, I should have been pleased if Your Highness could have danced with her——”

“Mynheer, I was in no mood for gaiety.”

M. de Witt, too proud to remind him that he had danced with Madame Lavalette, made no answer, and the Prince left the Binnenhof with an aristocratic slowness and an air of sombrely contained haughtiness.

Gaily the music rose over the splendid company. Mingled with it was the sound of laughter, the swish of silks.

The Grand Pensionary of the United Provinces was standing apart from the dancers.

Madame de Lavalette passed him with a deep courtesy.

“Old—the spy of Louis and stale at the game.…”

She was summing herself up in words much like those the Prince had used; her smile was cynical.

“I have been at it twenty years—I had better leave youth alone.…”

She passed down the stairs William had just descended, the candlelight on her white shoulders, her gleaming fair hair, and the long pearls in her ears.

Behind her went M. de Pomponne, smiling.

M. de Witt looked after them with a foreboding expression in his sad eyes. The Count de Montbas in his resplendent uniform, hitching at his great sword, joined him.

“What is the matter, Mynheer?” he asked in a tense voice.

M. de Witt gave a start.

“I?—what do you mean?”

The Count smiled uneasily.

“You are disturbed, Mynheer.”

“Read you so much in my face?”

And John de Witt caught the other by the arm and walked with him across the chamber. For awhile he did not speak for there had fallen on him a bitter sense of chilly fear; it seemed that the music had stopped and the candles gone out.

He shuddered.

“The Prince,” he said. “Did you mark him … and the Frenchwoman?” his fingers tightened on M. de Montbas’ arm. “My Republic.… God help me!… God help me, Count! … for I am afraid.…”

PART II
THE PRINCE

“I challenge all our histories to produce a Prince in all respects his equal; I call the differing humours, interests and religions of the world to witness whether they ever found a man to centre in, like him.…

“He might have raised his seat upon his native country’s liberty, his very enemies would have supported him in those pretences; but he affected no honours but what were freely offered him, there or elsewhere.…

“And his ambition, that was only useful, knew how to wear, as well as how to deserve them.”—William Fleetwood, Bishop of St. Asaph, Sermon.

CHAPTER I
THE RETURN OF FLORENT VAN MANDER

Mr. Bromley was watering his flowers and feeding his pigeons, and singing to himself a snatch of an English song, as he moved to and fro in the pale spring sunshine that filled his little room in the Palace.

Being disturbed by the entry of a servant, he turned his watering-can in his hand and ceased his singing.

“Pardon, Mynheer, it is M. Bentinck’s secretary who hath arrived at the Palace, and, His Highness being abroad, he wishes to see you.”

Matthew Bromley reflected.

“M. Bentinck’s secretary, by name Florent Van Mander, is it not so?”

“Yes, Mynheer.”

“Then bring him here.”

Florent Van Mander, entering immediately, had a pleasant picture of the Englishman standing by the open window with a row of tulips and narcissi showing behind him on the sill, and the grey and white pigeons circling above the gaudy flowers.

Mr. Bromley was cordial.

“We have not forgotten each other, Mynheer!—but it is not so long——”

Van Mander closed the door.

“Three years. It is three years since I was last at the Hague,” he said jealously.

“And three years of big events,” conceded Mr. Bromley. “But where is M. Bentinck?”

“He fell ill at Hertogenbosch;” Florent spoke briefly. “And I left him there, in his cousin’s house—he sent me on to acquaint the Prince of this delay——”

Mr. Bromley emptied his can, threw the last handful of grain to the greedy pigeons and closed the window.

“His Highness will be disappointed,” he remarked. He looked cheerfully at Florent. “Are you glad to have left Berlin?”

“I am glad to return to the Hague.”

Mr. Bromley leant against the window frame and observed him.

He could find no change whatever in him. Florent Van Mander appeared, as formerly, an alert, reserved, grave young man—a dull fellow Mr. Bromley called him inwardly.

“The Prince was expecting M. Bentinck to-night,” he said.

“M. Bentinck is furious at the mischance that keeps him——”

“He was glad to be recalled?”

“Naturally—does it not show the altered position of the Prince that he can recall him?”

Mr. Bromley moved to the oak overmantel and took from it a blue pot of deep red tulips that he placed on the table by the window.

“M. de Witt is still Grand Pensionary,” he remarked, “and this country is still a Republic,—but, as you say, the Prince’s position has altered.”

“Since he obtained the seat in the Council of State?”

“That was two years ago.” Mr. Bromley was removing the dead flowers from among the vivid blooms. “He hath taken a good many steps since then.”

“The whole country shouts for him,” said Florent. “It seemed to me that in every village I passed through they execrated the name of M. de Witt. But will you obtain me an audience of His Highness? I bear him a letter from M. Bentinck.”

The Englishman raised his fair face from the flowers.

“The Prince will be back at any moment, I think,” and he glanced at the clock. “He hath gone to the ‘Huis ten bosch.’”

“M. Van Ghent is no longer governor here?” asked Florent suddenly.

Mr. Bromley smiled.

“The Prince so wearied him with marks of his dislike he petitioned to be released from his post; so, consulting their own dignity, Their High Mightinesses declared His Highness free from tutelage. I’m glad of it——”

“M. de Witt opposed it—of course.”

“Of course,” repeated Mr. Bromley, carrying the tulips back to the mantelshelf. “He opposed his election to the Council—he opposed his journey to England——”

“On what grounds?”

Mr. Bromley shrugged his shoulders in a good-humoured manner.

“Doubtless he feared King Charles would win the Prince over to his designs,—and certainly if flattery and gaiety, and the temptations of a gorgeous Court——”

“Did you accompany him?” interrupted Florent enviously.

“Yes. We were fêted for three months, but the King and the courtiers did not take to the Prince, he was too austere—he was the idol of the people though,” added Mr. Bromley, who had a light, indifferent, and vague way of referring to political matters. But he saw that Van Mander was interested deeply in what had occurred during his three years’ absence from the Hague—so it was right he should be—and so Bromley strove, honestly, and with some difficulty to himself, to satisfy his curiosity.

“M. de Witt thought the Prince would be dazzled,” he explained, thrusting his hands into his pockets,—“so there was bad feeling over that; and then there was the seat in the Council of State, and His Highness’ salary—and the affairs abroad——”

“Do you think there will be war?” again Florent broke in.

“The French are in Lorraine already,—M. de Witt hath passed the war budget and is striving for an increase of the Army,—yes, every one says that there will be war.”

Florent coloured.

“France provokes it wantonly, on the thinnest pretexts,” he said hotly.

“Umph!” Mr. Bromley slightly grimaced. “England is in it too; you heard, of course, of the treaty of Dover?—the counter stroke to the Triple Alliance——”

“Sir William Temple, I hear, hath been recalled——”

“And de Pomponne—Downing is the English Ambassador now.”

Florent rose.

“What does the Prince think of all this?”

“The Prince is striving for the Captain Generalship.”

“Will he get it?”

“I cannot tell. M. de Witt opposes it with all his power—he sees in it the first step towards the restoration of the Stadtholdership; yet nothing less will content the Army and the people.”

Florent was silent. He did not like Mr. Bromley, shallow he thought him—he was, too, a foreigner.

His own eager reflections lay too deep for any expression. He saw the terrible shadow of France falling over his country, distracted by the agony of internal conflict.…

Nothing could save them … they would be subjects of Louis. John de Witt had no more power to prevent it.… Well, the Prince would get what price he could from France once he was Captain General, and he, Florent Van Mander, must follow the example. He had served the Prince in the person of M. Bentinck, faithfully, for three years—it would be remembered to his credit.

Out of the certain ruin facing his country those who followed the Prince alone could make easy terms with France.…

He was startled from his sombre reverie by a message from His Highness.

The Prince had returned, and would see the messenger from M. Bentinck immediately.

Mr. Bromley, still busy with his flowers, nodded carelessly and pleasantly, and Florent was led to the apartment where the Prince awaited him.

It was with an unreasonable sense of agitation that he came into William’s presence, with an unnamable feeling of excitement that he looked across the chamber.

It was in this same room he had taken leave of the Prince three years ago. It seemed in every detail unchanged.

Florent recalled the precise and sombre furniture, the dark walls, the portrait of Mary Stewart, Princess of Orange, above the mantelshelf, the table between the windows covered with books and papers, the shining brass fireirons and the blue-tiled hearth.

To-day the room was filled with the hazy February sunshine, and on the black lacquer cabinet inside the door stood, unexpectedly, a bowl of white and yellow narcissi.

The Prince was standing in the far window embrasure, with his back towards the door.

He wore a velvet suit of a colour he affected, a clear violet. He held his riding-whip behind his back, and the sunlight picked out bright threads in the long hair that fell between his shoulders.

Florent closed the door.

Slowly the Prince turned and shot him a keen glance.

“Ah, the messenger from M. Bentinck.”

He held out his hand for the letter, and by his manner it seemed that he had forgotten he had ever seen Van Mander before.

“M. Bentinck is ill at Hertogenbosch, Highness, otherwise he would be here in person.”

William took the letter and broke it open. M. Bentinck’s secretary stood with his hat in his hand, eagerly observing the master whom he admired blindly and did not understand.

His first impression was that William had changed considerably. He was of the same stature, having come early to his full height, but of a more robust appearance, though his face still retained a look of delicacy. His air of assured self-containment, his expression of calm gravity had deepened. He had always been sure of himself, now he wore the air of a man sure no less of others, sure of his own influence to sway whom he would to his will.

He had lost some of his repression, it seemed; was no longer equally on his guard as to what he said or how he looked.

As he stood quietly reading his letter he conveyed a personality startlingly masterful and daring. Florent felt as if some one touched him, gripped him, so strong was the influence of the slim and silent figure.

William at length looked up.

His face had slightly altered. He was not so pale, the curved lips were set firmly in an expression of half scorn that seemed habitual, his brilliant eyes were controlled to an unfathomable austerity, and the peculiar cleft in his chin was more noticeable.

He wore slight moustaches in the French style that added to his age, and was dressed for riding even more simply than Florent.

“M. Bentinck is not seriously ill?” he asked.

“No, Highness, a chill—a slight fever——”

“When will he be able to come to the Hague?”

“In a day or so, I think, Highness.”

William looked again at the letter.

Florent did not know how to face the disappointment of the Prince’s total forgetfulness of himself; his three years’ exile were ill repaid by this.…

Again the Prince raised his eyes.

“Are you pleased to return to the Hague, Mynheer Van Mander?”

A hot flush swept across Florent’s face.

“I thought Your Highness did not recall me.”

“I recall you very well, Mynheer—M. Bentinck speaks highly of you; if you choose to remain in my service, it is open to you—here.”

Florent found himself foolishly unable to frame an answer. He had felt himself slighted, and now he was over-rewarded; shame silenced him.

“I imagine you will care to stay,” said William, eyeing him.

“It has been my ambition, Highness.”

The Prince put the letter away in his pocket.

“You will see M. Renswoude, who is now head of my household; I need another secretary. I will speak with you again. Meanwhile, Mynheer, I thank you for your fidelity to M. Bentinck.”

Florent, quivering with pleasure, bowed low.

The Prince turned to the table between the windows.

“First I will request you to return to Hertogenbosch, Mynheer, with a letter for M. Bentinck.”

He sat down, wrote hastily, in a large, flowing hand, a few lines, and sealed them in a cover with the signet on his thumb.

As he rose again the door was opened.

“Highness, the Grand Pensionary is below and requests an immediate interview.”

It seemed to Florent’s acute observation that a malicious and triumphant expression flashed for an instant in William’s eyes, but he answered quietly—

“I will see him here.”

As the servant withdrew, William seated himself before his papers again, handing Florent the packet for M. Bentinck.

“Return as soon as you may and—an easy journey,” he said.

Florent bowed himself out as he would have done from a king’s presence, flushed, with a high beating heart, and well repaid for those tedious three years in Berlin.

William watched the door close, then leant back in his chair.

Papers, drawings, plans and maps were scattered before him. Some of the drawers of the cabinet were pulled open, and the long, fuchsia-shaped, brass handles glittered, where the sun caught them, in stars of gold.

Several books, on mathematics and geometry, were piled together, and upon them was placed a vase in the shape of a Chinese monster holding a single crimson tulip.

The sun, slanting in through the long window, caught this flower and picked it out, like a bell of blood against the dusky background, then fell full on the thoughtful figure of the Prince, outlining it in a misty radiance.

The rest of the room was golden dark, for the heavy curtains were half across the windows, and the light filtered through them in a subdued hue, so that M. de Witt, entering the chamber, had his attention fixed at once by the Prince and the tulip, the objects upon which all the sunshine fell.

With every day now de Witt and this young man he gazed on drifted farther apart. They had not met privately for months.

William turned slowly in his chair and rose.

“I am grateful for this, Mynheer,” he said, and it was the manner of a king with a subject, “for I wished to speak to you.”

The Grand Pensionary advanced into the room. He was splendidly dressed, for he had been attending the second reception of Sir George Downing by the States General, and, though still in mourning for his wife, his black was put aside on this occasion. He wore a crimson mantle embroidered in gold, and a coat laced and beribboned.

“There is much to say, on both sides, Highness,” he answered gravely.

The Prince remained erect, with his hand on the back of his chair.

“Will you be seated, M. de Witt?”

The Grand Pensionary came slowly down the room, holding his velvet mantle across his breast. His demeanour was stately to haughtiness, his lips unsmiling and his eyes severe.

“It is a long time since you and I have spoken together,” he said.

“You have been much occupied, Mynheer,” replied the Prince.

He continued to stand. Mynheer de Witt seated himself in a deep, Spanish leather chair facing the window, but enveloped in the hazy, golden, dusky shadows.

“It is not preoccupation hath kept me away,” said the Grand Pensionary, “but distaste to broach with you matters on which we cannot agree. Since we cannot meet as friends, Highness, it is painful to me that we must meet at all.”

“Why not as friends, Mynheer?” asked William quietly.

John de Witt looked at him steadily and mournfully.

“Because there is no friendship in your heart for me, Prince.”

“I can assure you that you mistake me—I am capable of separating the man and his office, Mynheer.”

“I am one with my office,” answered the Grand Pensionary proudly. “What I say publicly I do not abate one jot in private. Whilst this Republic chooses me as its representative I shall serve openly, and with all my power, the liberty and independence of the United Provinces—both against foreign tyranny and native ambition.”

“Is this a threat?” asked William.

“I do not use those weapons, Prince.… I have come here because I have had rumour of many things thrust upon me.… I wish to hear from your own lips what you intend to do.”

“What have you heard of me from others?” questioned William. He looked down at the floor.

John de Witt raised his head a little.

“M. Fagel, M. Beverningh, M. Asperon are your friends or followers, their party is powerful in the Assembly; at this time, when we should be most united, they harass and thwart the Government at every turn——”

William glanced up, the sunlight full across his face.

“You can easily silence this faction in the State, Mynheer.”

“Only by concession, Highness.”

The Prince’s fair hand moved slightly on the carved back of his chair.

“You have come to accuse me of causing sedition in the Assembly,” he said calmly. “You always regarded me as troublesome,” he smiled faintly. “However … what I have to say to you touches this same subject, Mynheer.”

“The welfare of the State, Highness?”

“Yes.”

“What has Your Highness to say to me?”

“You know, Mynheer, what question it is that agitates the Assembly—I put it to you three years ago and you refused——”

“Then I refuse it now,” answered John de Witt.

“The times have changed,” remarked William laconically.

“But I have not,” replied the Grand Pensionary gravely.

“Still, I will again ask you, Mynheer, to consent to my appointment to the Captain Generalship.”

The Prince picked up his whip from among the papers and looked at it as he spoke.

The angry colour rushed into John de Witt’s worn face.

“My answer is no,” he replied sternly; “and I am surprised at these presumptuous pretensions.”

The whip shook a little in William’s hands.

“Why?” he asked, speaking slowly by reason of the control he was exercising. He kept his eyes still on the whip.

“Because it hath been decreed by law—a law that I have sworn to—that all discussion even of your election to this office be deferred till you are twenty-two.”

“Are you going to stand to that, Mynheer? I am twenty-one.”

“I hold,” answered John de Witt, “to the letter of the law.”

William raised his wonderful eyes.

“And yet you speak of friendship.… You have always opposed me … always,” he pressed his handkerchief to his lips and coughed. “You opposed my election to the Council of State.”

“I should again oppose the election of a Prince of eighteen to the Assembly of the Republic.”

“You opposed my journey to England,” continued the Prince, “because you thought my uncle would seduce me into furthering his designs.” He drew a quick breath and looked away from M. de Witt,—“Is it because you still have such suspicions of me that you withhold the Captain Generalship?”

There was an instant’s pause before the Grand Pensionary answered—

“No—no!” Some agitation showed in his voice. “I would not dishonour myself with such unworthy thoughts, but there is too much at stake.”

“There is everything at stake,” said the Prince. “The very existence of the United Provinces is at stake.”

“You are too young to have this tremendous responsibility—too inexperienced——”

“The Stadtholder Maurice was only eighteen when he took command of the Army,” flashed the Prince.

“You quote an unhappy example, Highness. Prince Maurice took advantage of his position to become the tyrant of the people.”

William looked at him under lowered lids.

“You speak as the admirer of John Van Olden Barnenveldt,” he said slowly.

It was a bold and dangerous allusion, since the Grand Pensionary Barnenveldt had perished on the scaffold for his opposition to the power of the Stadtholder Maurice.

“I do.” John de Witt’s voice was cold.

“And as an enemy of my House.”

“As an enemy of sovereign power in your House, Prince.”

William laid down the whip.

“You, Mynheer, will urge the Assembly to refuse me the Captain Generalship?”

“With all my power.”

The Prince bit his lip, and his lids drooped farther over his brilliant eyes.

“To whom does the Assembly intend to entrust the Army?”

“Your Highness knows—Major General Wurtz, the Prince of Tarentum, the Viscount de Montbas.”

“Those are your men?”

“They are the tried and experienced soldiers to whom I am prepared to entrust our defences—if God refuse us the peace which I still hope for.”

William half turned towards him.

“Peace! You still hope for peace—after the treaty of Dover, after the invasion of Lorraine, of Munster and Cologne; after Downing’s audience of the States, his insolent demands, his frivolous complaints. Peace! You should open the campaign to-morrow, Mynheer.”

John de Witt replied firmly—

“Still do I hope to avert the war——”

“You have been hoping that these last two years, Mynheer.”

“Almighty God helping me I shall succeed in it yet.”

The Prince’s eyes flashed impatiently.

“I would sooner pray Almighty God to help me drive out the French.”

“That is the talk of selfish ambition,” answered the Grand Pensionary. “If once we embark on a war with France and England only a miracle can save us—” he gave a half sigh, and repeated—“can save us.”

“To that end—the end of peace—you make concessions.”

“I have been forced to. I have conceded the supremacy of the seas to England, Downing had his answer to-day——”

William coloured swiftly.

“That acknowledges this country subject to the King of England,” he remarked quickly.

“It gives us, Prince, some chance.”

“Our deliverance lies in the sword,” said William shortly.

“Untried enthusiasm speaks there,” answered John de Witt not unkindly. “We are a people whose prosperity depends on peace. Our commerce is our glory and our wealth. We have shed enough blood in the past to defend it.… Now we are prosperous, rich, free, and powerful … to twenty-five years of peace we owe this.… A war would be disastrous … disastrous.”

“It is, I think, inevitable,” struck in the other.

John de Witt half smiled sadly.

“Does Your Highness question my statesmanship?”

William was silent a moment, evidently considering how he should shape his reply.

The sun had moved, so that it fell across the centre of the floor in a heavy beam of gold, leaving the Prince in shadow.

“I think that, the war budget having been passed a year ago, the country should be in a better condition to resist invasion,” he said at length. “The people are taxed almost beyond endurance; two forced loans have been raised, and both the land and sea forces are wretchedly inadequate. I do not know who is responsible for these things, Mynheer.”

He coughed, and looked sideways at the red tulip.

“You take something on yourself, Highness,” returned John de Witt, “to say this to my face; it is an indictment.”

“I am not in a position to criticise you, Mynheer,” answered the Prince, and the scornful curve to his mouth was now noticeable beyond mistake. “Since I have no share in the government, these things are no affair of mine—but M. Fagel brought me your book——”

M. de Witt was betrayed into hot speech—

“Gaspard Fagel fawns on you.…”

“I think he wishes to serve me,” returned William quietly. “You taught me finance—and some other things—and I have applied your lessons to your practice—for my own instruction, Mynheer.”

John de Witt looked at him curiously.

“I do not quite understand Your Highness.”

“No? There is little need—as you say. What have I to do with the government of the United Provinces?—I asked your influence in the matter of the Captain Generalship——”

The Grand Pensionary interrupted haughtily—

“Prince, I can no longer discuss that subject; under no conditions will I be party to giving you this position. You must serve before you can command; know something of war before you can be put over men like Wurtz and Prince John Maurice, Montbas and the Prince of Tarentum.”

William answered, keeping his glance upon the papers scattered over his desk—

“I know enough to tell you, Mynheer, that if you do not strengthen the frontier the French will cross the Rhine—and once the Rhine is crossed, Utrecht falls … and half the Republic is lost.”

“You speak as if judging me remiss in my duty to the State.”

“I speak from my conviction, Mynheer.”

“It hath not been wholly in my hands,” answered John de Witt, with a stately control. “What hath been done hath been done by much reflection and varied advice. How would Your Highness have it different?”

“It were very idle to talk of what I cannot perform,” said William. “Put me in command of the Army and I will show you what I will do.”

The Grand Pensionary rose with a glimmer of red and gold.

“Never!” he said firmly, “never.…”

The Prince was still standing, his hand resting on the back of his chair and his eyes cast down. His very quiet conveyed a passion and a determination that John de Witt felt meeting his own firm resolve, iron striking iron, the unyielding strength of two opposed natures brought into contest.

“Mynheer,” said William, “there are those desirous of obtaining me this appointment—I have, as you say, some friends in the Assembly——”

Between them fell the gold bar of sunshine, dancing with a million motes. Each saw the other beyond it, in a haze of dusky shadow.

“You intend to push the matter to extremes?” asked John de Witt.

Their eyes met.

“Have you come to request me not to?” returned William, with meaning.

John de Witt coloured at the tone.

“No, Highness,” he answered proudly. “I will request of you nothing.”

“Their High Mightinesses will decide between us,” said William, with a stress of mockery on the title. “I am sorry that you will not help me——”

“And I, Prince, am sorry that you should have asked it of me,” replied the Grand Pensionary with a mournful dignity; “it makes weightier my almost intolerable burdens, my almost crushing duties more difficult, that you, and at this crisis, should distract the State with your pretensions and adopt this position towards me.”

William again lowered his eyes; he seemed to be considering. After a second he smiled.

“I also grieve that you should refuse me, Mynheer.”

His eyes flashed an upward glance.

“Perhaps it is not wise!”

“It is right,” answered M. de Witt. “Your friendship would mean much to me—but I cannot purchase it at any such price——”

“We are both too obstinate,” said William, almost insolently; “there is no need for more talk on the matter.”

M. de Witt gathered up his mantle.

“Good even to Your Highness.”

“Good even, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary regarded him with a touch of wistfulness and hesitated a moment; but William stood motionless, obviously waiting for him to leave, and John de Witt turned away.

Again it was the manner of a sovereign with the subject; the Prince seated himself before the Grand Pensionary had closed the door.

The smile still lingered on his lips, he took a letter from the pocket of his coat and slowly unfolded it.

It was from Fagel.

William re-read the last sentences—

“Your Highness’ affair goes well in the Assembly. M. de Witt hath but little influence now. In a few days you will be Captain General, since both General Wurtz and Prince Charles have promised to refuse should the office be offered to them, and since the clamour of the people is no longer to be withstood.…”

CHAPTER II
AGNETA DE WITT

“Did you see the Prince to-day, my father?”

Agneta de Witt dropped her fine sewing into her lap and looked at the Grand Pensionary.

They were together in the garden, under the new golden foliage of the wych elms and limes. The air was filled with a soft and melancholy sunshine; the trees cast faint and moving shadows over the black-clad figure of John de Witt, who leant back in the rustic seat and, his face resting on his hand, gazed at his daughter.

“I saw him this afternoon, Agneta.”

“I thought, sir, that you had.”

“And why?” The Grand Pensionary smiled.

Agneta fixed her pale blue eyes on him anxiously; her colourless, gentle face looked pure and grave as an infant’s in the precise white cap.

“Forgive me, sir—but it is because you have seemed sad.”

“I am tired,” answered John de Witt quietly. “Very tired, Agneta.”

His daughter turned her face away.

Across the close grass came a couple of pigeons, white on the green, and the two on the seat were so still that the birds strutted to their feet.

“You are always tired now, sir.”

“I can expect nothing else, my dearest.”

She picked up her sewing.

“And you are so seldom here … you have not sat like this with me … for so long, sir.”

“The house is too sombre for you,” answered John de Witt tenderly. “You must return to Dordt——”

“No,” breathed Agneta quickly, looking up into his face. “Oh no! let me stay here, sir.”

“My dearest!”

He laid his fine hand lightly on her shoulder.

“If I could help you …” she said in a low voice.

“There is no help for us save in God,” answered the Grand Pensionary gravely, “and surely He will not forsake us.”

Agneta bowed her head low over her sewing. The white pigeons brushed her long grey skirts with their wings, and the sunshine flickering through the lime leaves caught the pale yellow locks on her smooth brow.

“You are always sad when you have seen the Prince, father. I think he is an ungodly young man.”

John de Witt smiled mournfully.

“You must not dwell on politics, Agneta.”

“I cannot help it.” She kept her lids down that her father should not see her eyes were filled with tears. “I … I hear such horrible things, I see you so occupied, so weary.…”

He answered her with a grave tenderness—

“We are in troublous and bitter times, dearest. Danger to the State, to each and all of us, is very near; dismay unmans many … but I hope to save the Republic, Agneta; you must pray that God will give me strength.”

“I am praying for you, sir, in my heart always,” the tears trembled on her cheeks.

There was a pause.

The pigeons fluttered away, and up through the sunny leaves.

“Will there be war?” Agneta spoke at length, under her breath.

“I think there will be war.”

John de Witt’s gaze went past his daughter, as if it rested on some threatening vision of the future.

She shyly wiped her tears.

“With France—and England, father?”

“I do fear it, Agneta.”

She shuddered. War was a terrible thing to her, but still more terrible was the anxious bearing of her noble father.

“The people riot, sir; is it because of the war?” she asked timidly.

“It is the Prince’s faction,” he answered abstractedly. “He is extraordinarily beloved by the people, Agneta.”

“He hath done nothing,” she said simply. “Why do they riot?”

“He would be Captain General … and it may not be.”

A colour came into her fair face. “I fear and mislike him!”

John de Witt turned his soft gaze on her.

“Nay, Agneta—do not say that, nor think it.”

Once more the white linen she sewed sank into her lap.

“Sir, the other day on the Voorhout there was a man wearing an orange favour—he had others with him—I was with my aunt Johanna, and when they saw us, these men, they called after us insolently—my Aunt Johanna asked one of them ‘Why?’ He said, ‘We are for the Prince and you are John de Witt’s women’—and the crowd were with them, sir.”

John de Witt frowned and coloured.

“You never told me this.”

“No—perhaps I should not have told you now, my father,” her eyes rested anxiously upon his face; “but—the Prince cannot be your friend, sir.”

“He hath no control over the brawling mob,” answered the Grand Pensionary hastily. “He would not wish me to be insulted.… I must make an example of some of these rioters—an example,” he repeated.

Agneta put her little hand timidly on his arm.

“Sir, we are no longer beloved in the Hague nor at Dordt … they say such things of you——”

There she checked herself. They had all agreed to keep from John de Witt what his growing enemies said of him.

“It is not strange,” he answered mournfully; “but it is strange, and cruel, that it should come to thy ears, Agneta.”

A frightened expression stole into her large, pale blue eyes.

“Father, why are these people turning against you?—nay, I must speak of it—M. Fagel is no longer friendly——”

“He hath elected to follow the Prince.”

“And—and there are others.…”

“Dearest, very many forsake me … but God will support me in what I have to do.”

“Will—will my uncle Cornelius have to go with the Fleet?”

“I think so, dearest.”

Agneta reflected a second, then said—

“But we are always victorious on the sea.”

“Cornelius and the others, Agneta, will do their utmost to preserve this dear land’s liberty … and we must trust in God.”

“My uncle Cornelius could never be defeated,” insisted Agneta. “But you are anxious.”

He stroked the little fingers lying on his sleeve.

“About the India fleet—now being convoyed home—de Ruyter hath gone to meet it—but I am anxious, sweet——”

“Would the English attack it?” Her fair brows contracted.

“How wise thou art become!” He smiled down into her upturned face. “Yes, I do fear the English ships.”

“But war is not yet declared, my father.”

“No, and may not be—still there is so much—so much—and I am tired, dear, how tired I only know when I rest—and to think they hate me, Agneta.”

“Ah, no one hates you!” she cried.

His sad smile deepened.

“Did you not say so, yourself, dear heart, but now? The people have neither trust in me nor love—after twenty years of toil—of such toil.… Do you recall, Agneta, how they repaid Olden Barnenveldt?”

“Father!”

“He was a virtuous man, Agneta, and did more for his country than ever I have been able to do.”

She went very pale.

“But—father—it is not possible!”

“What, dearest?”

“M. Olden Barnenveldt was beheaded, father!”

“Sometimes I think of it—to-day when I crossed the Plaats——”

Agneta shuddered.

“Sir, do not speak like that.”

He roused himself from a sad reverie.

“Nay, sweet heart, I must not grieve thee with my foolish thoughts; ’tis not often that thou beguilest me into talking State affairs here—where I am at peace.”

He glanced with a sigh round the quiet garden.

“And I am so seldom at peace now I am a very fool to mar it. We will talk of other things.”

“There is nothing else that interests me, father.”

“That must not be, see how I have distressed thee. Nay, do not spoil my little hour of repose with these tears, dearest.… Why should you weep? Indeed I am well, only tired, a little tired, dear.… Nay, this is weakness, my Agneta.”

She was weeping silently.

“My burdens are not more than I can bear, but it hurts me you should weep.”

She stifled her tears.

“I think of you always, sir. When I was away in Dordt I wearied to be here—and I can be of no use to you … you are lonely.”

“Lonely?” he echoed wistfully.

Agneta trembled closer to him.

“Since my mother died.…”

He took her hands and gazed down into her sad face.

“Thy mother was very gentle and timid, dearest … perhaps she was spared more than she could have borne. Perhaps had she known she would have chosen … to go … and I to let her … they cannot insult her, she died while her name was still respected.… Ah, thou art a beloved child … and hast her eyes.… ‘Blessed be God in happiness and affliction’.… ‘The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away’.…”

He drew her gently towards him and kissed her forehead.

“While we do our duty we cannot be wholly unhappy, Agneta; and while the angels are about us we cannot be lonely—not wholly lonely.”

The sun reddened to its setting, and a full and ruddy light was shed among the quivering leaves and over the spring grass.

The chimes of the Groote Kerk fell on the silence with a swift, clear rise and fall.

Agneta dropped her head on to her father’s breast and sobbed.

“Why—what is the matter?” he asked, distressed.

She sprang up holding her hands before her face, and fled, leaving her white sewing on the grass.

John de Witt sat silent, his form half bowed, his head bent.

Beside Agneta’s place rested a paper-bound book, his own, he saw: On the Value of Life Annuities as Compared with Perpetual Annuities—the book of which the Prince had spoken. It dealt with the enormous difficulty of the war taxation; a monument of learning, of research, of patriotism.

Agneta, who was gravely studying mathematics, had begged a copy from her uncle Vivien and carried it about with her. It touched John de Witt exceedingly to see it there.

Had she been reading it that she might understand his learned talk of the means by which he had saved the finances of the United Provinces?—poor child!…

He sat for a while staring at the humble little volume; hands and brains for once idle, the sunset flushing the garden about him and the tender breeze caressing his face.

When he at length slowly moved at the sound of a step on the gravel path he saw his father, Jacob de Witt, coming towards him with the careful gait of age.

The Grand Pensionary rose smilingly.

Jacob de Witt was still as erect as when he had defied the Stadtholder, William II., in 1650. A fine and sedate gentleman, with soft white hair falling under his black cap; stern, melancholy, and pale.

“Sit down, John, I wish to speak to you.”

The Grand Pensionary obeyed. The elder de Witt, despite his eighty-two years, still held important offices of state and had the manner of authority.

He seated himself beside his son.

“This must be answered,” he said. He held out a paper in his colourless hand.

“Another pamphlet”—John de Witt’s tone was mournful. “Father, they are distributed openly, under my very eyes. What may one do but scorn them?”

A silence followed. The life of John de Witt had been austere and irreproachable beyond that of any man of his time; yet his father knew that the violence of party hatred was holding him up to the contempt of his fellow-citizens under every vile aspect imaginable.

For twenty years of upright dealing, of pure patriotism, of incessant toil; for an unswerving devotion to his friends and a generous and unchanging policy of conciliation towards his enemies, he was now rewarded by the basest ingratitude from the opponents he had always respected, and with the vilest accusations from the people whom he had so nobly served.

These things were in the mind of Jacob de Witt as he looked at his son, and even the stern resignation taught by their common creed hardly sustained him against these bitter calumnies of his belovèd’s name.

John de Witt was the first to speak.

“Why should we trouble about these things?”

He took the pamphlet from his father’s hand gently, and laid it on the seat between them.

The elder de Witt’s voice trembled a little.

“This must be answered, my son—every citizen of the United Provinces is reading it—the charges are most gravely and categorically stated … the vileness of it is almost beyond credit.”

The Grand Pensionary half turned and picked the pamphlet up.

It was entitled: Advice to every Good and Faithful Hollander.

“What do they say?” he asked wearily.

“They say—” Jacob de Witt drew himself erect,—“this libel says that you have purloined money from the Treasury and sent it to a bank in Venice, where you propose to retire after the conquest of the United Provinces.… That you have betrayed your country by leaving it without defence, and that you have appropriated yearly eighty thousand florins of the Secret Service money.…”

John de Witt rested his tired eyes on the gentle trees.

“How can I answer that?” he said simply. “The mere frothings of spite.”

“You must answer it—you must disprove it!” cried his father firmly.

“Disprove that!” He half smiled.

“Ay! A villain may throw mud at a saint,” said Jacob de Witt, answering his son’s meaning of lofty contempt,—“but if it is not removed it leaves a smirch; no saint even may disregard these things. What hath the Republic come to that any should dare what this man hath dared?”

He struck the paper, and his dim eyes flashed fiercely.

The Grand Pensionary put his hand to his brow and pushed back the soft hair.

“My life hath been entirely open.… My money hath been invested entirely in the public funds—with the fortune of Holland, my fortunes fall—every one knows this. Can I stoop to defend myself against party lies?”

“Your silence will not disarm their implacable resentment—you must turn on them.”

“Ah, I have so much else to do, my father, so much.…”

The light had faded from the garden and lingered only in the tops of the trees and on the roof of the modest house. It was quite warm; the pigeons flew up through the golden air, in among the leaves of the limes, and back again to the bright grass.

“I think there will be war,” said John de Witt suddenly, and with a terrible note in his voice. “I would God would let me give my life to avert it—war, in this rich and prosperous country, war against overwhelming odds,” he stared straight before him with narrowed eyes—“war provoked by base tyranny of the French and baser tyranny of the English—what have I to do? For they hate me—how can I serve them when they hate me?”

“There are those who are faithful.” Jacob de Witt grasped his son’s hand.

“I have given Gaspard Fagel the Grand Secretaryship,” answered John de Witt in an absorbed way, “to win him to us … but on every side they fall away from me.… It is strange that I should be so hated——”

“We are in the hands of God, who for His own ends tries us.”

The younger de Witt bent his head.

“I show myself a weakling, I am tired to-night. I saw the Prince this afternoon, and it saddened me—I have been disappointed in him.”

The one-time prisoner of Loevenstein answered sternly—

“He is a worldly, ambitious, and deceitful young man—a danger to the State. Little do I doubt he is in league with Charles Stewart, as little as I doubt he is behind such attacks as these.”

He struck the paper on the seat beside him.

“I believe nor one nor the other,” answered John de Witt. “It must be that he is honourable, and I know him God-fearing.”

“He is even as his father was!”

“The Captain Generalship is his claim now—and he is well supported.”

“If he obtain it—’twill be the first step to the Stadtholdership.”

“If I have any power left, father, he will not obtain it—and if he obtain it in spite of me, he will find that the office is incompatible with the Stadtholdership.” John de Witt set his lips firmly. “I have seen to that.”

“He hath an extraordinary presumption to pretend to such an office!”

The Grand Pensionary answered slowly, almost reluctantly—

“I believe it is the wish of the Army—such is their folly.”

“They are very eager to forge their own chains,” said Jacob de Witt grimly.

“It is a strange thing—I think it is the name hath the glamour—they would take him untried.…”

John de Witt paused a moment, then went on in a low and laboured voice—

“There are so many difficulties … a domestic revolution threatened … a foreign invasion … but if they trusted me I could save them yet … from France and from themselves.”

He straightened himself and put his hand to his breast.

“If they should give this command to the Prince, if they should put into that boy’s hands all our defences … and he should.…”

“Play us false,” finished Jacob de Witt sombrely. “Well, what then?”

“What then?… Ruin!… This land, that we have made one of the greatest in the world, would be a fief of France before the year is out.”

He bent his head for a moment, then rose abruptly.

“Father, I envy Cornelius, who can work with his hands, and pay with his blood; I would I might face the enemy on the high sea, nor stay here to face the factions with weary logic.”

“Your task, being the more difficult, is the more glorious, John.”

The Grand Pensionary pressed his hand to his brow and gazed at the glimpses of fading sky to be seen between the fluttering leaves.

“It is nearly twenty years since I took up this responsibility. … They cannot say that I have served them ill, as far as my abilities went——” He roused and controlled himself. “It is not often that I talk so weakly—let us go into the house, it grows cool here, under the trees.”

Jacob de Witt rose and took his son’s arm.

They were both of a height, tall, upright; dressed alike in black with lace collars, the same in demeanour and expression, the grey locks touching the brown as they walked slowly through the twilight that was gradually falling over the garden.

The birds made a pleasant noise in the upper branches, and above the low brick wall was a vision of sunset clouds, pink, remote and peaceful, floating across the placid sky.

Agneta de Witt stepped out of the long, open windows; a slim and pale figure in the uncertain light.

She came to meet her father.

“Aunt Johanna says that you stay out too late, sir, and that it is yet over soon in the year to be abroad after the sun hath set.”

All traces of tears had vanished; she spoke with a grave air of wisdom.

Jacob de Witt smiled at her.

“Hast a letter there?”

She held it out eagerly.

“Yea, sir, from Anna.”

“From Anna!” repeated John de Witt tenderly. “What does she say?”

“That she is coming home to-morrow, sir.”

“Nay, that cuts her holiday too short.”

“She says she is resolved to come, sir.”

“And what else, dearest?”

“Oh, she says my aunt Maria took her to the fair at Dordt—and that they had a feast of pancakes, and all drank your health twice over.”

She slipped her letter into the Grand Pensionary’s hand. “There is one for you indoors,” she added.

They entered the house by the wide-open windows of the library; at that moment a servant brought in the candles, and the two men paused on the threshold of the room.

At a lacquered Chinese cabinet Maria de Witt, in a prim white dress, sat on a high chair, her feet dangling, laboriously and gravely writing with a huge quill that waved over her shoulder and tangled itself with her yellow curls.

Beside her, tiptoeing that he might see, was her little brother, who supported himself by his hands on the desk.

A child still in skirts sat on the floor near them; he was in red leading-strings fastened to a heavy arm-chair, and appeared to be engaged in working his feet out of his shoes.

Agneta pursed up her mouth.

“Maria cannot write because John spills the ink, he spoilt my letter to Uncle Cornelius this morning.”

The Grand Pensionary caught his breath and turned away quickly to the mantelshelf.

He leant there, looking down into the empty hearth.

“Father,” Maria lifted a flushed face, “how do you spell ‘trouble’?”

John de Witt glanced up and gazed at her.

“What need hast thou for that word, Maria?”

“She is very ignorant,” said her brother scornfully; “I know how to spell it,” and he struggled to wrest the pen from her.

“Thou needest not use the word trouble to thy uncle,” said Jacob de Witt.

“I write—‘There is much trouble at the Hague’; is it not true, father?”

“Yes, dearest,” he answered gently. “Agneta will tell thee how to spell it.”

“I know,” insisted the younger John.

The Grand Pensionary met his father’s glance across the room that was now filled with the pleasant candlelight, then crossed to the child on the floor and stood him up.

“Thou art almost too old for petticoats,” he smiled.

The little Jacob looked at him and smiled back brilliantly. John de Witt dropped on one knee beside him, and Agneta came and stood behind them, uneasy because her brother’s jacket was crumpled, and, to her housewifely eye, untidy.

But the boy’s father did not notice that; he smoothed the fair curls with a gentle hand.

“I think thou hast grown since I saw thee last,” he said yearningly.

With a sudden shyness the child hid his face on the Grand Pensionary’s shoulder.

John de Witt pressed him close.

There was silence in the room save for the scratching of Maria’s quill.

Jacob de Witt seated himself in his usual place by the hearth; his hands clasped in his lap. His silver-bound Bible was on the table by his side.

With dim but resolute eyes he looked on at his son and his son’s children, and in his heart he gave thanks to God for his noble offspring.

John de Witt was such an one as the pure faith might be proud of; one who had followed in the footsteps of the early members of a stern and persecuted faith; one such as Jacob de Witt would have his son, an upright and humble servant of high things.

Very far away seemed the clamour of the factions, the rumours of wars, the jealousies, the ambitions, the heat of politics; very far from this peaceful home of John de Witt.

Neither did it seem possible that hate or malice should enter here, that lies or calumny, or any ignoble passions, should strike at such goodness and such innocence.

The vilest must love John de Witt, the meanest respect him in his simple, bereaved, and united home.

His helpless children were not more spotless, more free of dishonour, than he who for twenty years had guided a great nation through a difficult and perilous way.

And how are they rewarding him? thought Jacob de Witt grimly. How are they rewarding him?

Into the gathered peace and silence came a distant, ominous sound.

The Grand Pensionary listened.

The noise grew.

He put down his little son and rose.

“What is that?”

Agneta shuddered.

“Another riot——”

“Close the window,” said John de Witt; “close the window.”

CHAPTER III
SCHEVENINGEN

The Prince drew rein at the Palace steps.

“Bromley,” he said.

The Englishman came down to his master’s stirrup.

“Is M. Fagel here?”

“Yes, Highness; he is waiting for you.”

“Ah!” William patted his horse’s neck.

“Hath he come from the Assembly?”

“Yes, Highness—Their Noble Mightinesses sat all night.”

“I trust that they have come to a wise decision,” remarked the Prince. “And, Bromley, have you discovered the whereabouts of M. Triglandt?”

“Highness, I wrote to Utrecht——”

“I wrote there,” interrupted William impatiently, “and my letter was returned, as M. Triglandt had left his lodgings.”

“Highness, I have discovered that he fell ill——”

“Ill!” exclaimed the Prince.

“—and was conveyed by relatives to Arnheim——”

“Well, you will write there and give him my commands to return to the Hague.”

William flung the reins to his groom and dismounted.

“You may add,” he continued, “that I take the first occasion to ask his return, and that any friend of mine is honoured in the Hague now.”

He smiled with his eyes and touched Mr. Bromley on the arm with his whip.

“Tell them to keep the horse, as afterwards I am promised at the ‘Huis ten bosch.’”

Then he turned slowly into the house.

M. Gaspard Fagel, a man of talents but a servile spirit, the rival of M. de Witt, and already almost completely under the influence of the Prince, waited in the library, or the chamber that served for such; the room where Van Mander had first seen the Prince, and where William always received such as waited on him.

The Prince entered, booted, spurred, carrying his riding-whip and wearing his hat.

“Ah, M. Fagel.”

He held out his bare right hand, and the Secretary of the Republic kissed it humbly.

William did not uncover, but his manner was gracious. He knew Gaspard Fagel for what he was—able, industrious, cunning, a man who would be a tool.

It was men just such as he that William needed. There were many of them among the servants of the Republic, and very few had resisted the advances of the heir of Nassau.

“I must congratulate you personally on your appointment, M. Fagel,” said the Prince, seating himself in front of the desk, between the windows.

“Your Highness is very good,” and M. Fagel bowed. He was a well-looking man, richly dressed in green and gold, of a far more pompous appearance than William, who wore a plain brown roquelaure and beaver.

“You come from the Assembly, Mynheer?”

“Yes, Highness—to report to you privately the resolution that will be made public to-day.”

“Will you not be seated, Mynheer?”

M. Fagel obeyed, and fixed his small, intelligent eyes keenly and half anxiously on the Prince.

The early morning sunshine was pale and misty in the chamber. William sat with his back to the light, his hat and heavy feather shading his face, so that the astute Secretary could very ill see his countenance.

“There has been a most fierce fight in the Assembly, Highness—M. de Witt exerted every nerve, and the whole power of the Government was brought to bear on the situation.”

“But I believe my friends were in the majority, Mynheer,” answered William.

“It was an almost equal struggle, Highness. M. de Witt spoke for two hours against your appointment; M. Jacob de Witt vehemently seconded him, M. Vivien supported them, and they found allies in the representatives of Amsterdam.”

William bent his whip across his knee; the powerful city had always been the enemy of his House.

M. Fagel wiped his brow and his lips; he had been up all night, and looked excited and fatigued.

“What was the result of this debate?” asked the Prince quietly.

The Secretary crushed his handkerchief up in his nervous right hand.

“It has been decided to offer Your Highness the Captain Generalship——”

“Without restrictions, Mynheer?”

“That was impossible—we had to come to a compromise with M. de Witt.”

The Prince’s grasp tightened on his whip.

“What compromise, Mynheer?”

M. Fagel, whose one object was to obtain the favour of the head of the Orange party, winced at the tone of this question.

“Your Highness must consider——” he began.

William cut him short.

“Tell me straightly, M. Fagel.”

The Secretary bit his lip uneasily.

“We have obtained for Your Highness, on condition that you take the oaths never to attempt the Stadtholdership——”

“M. Van Odyk told me of that precaution of M. de Witt—I have no objection, Mynheer. He who binds can loose.”

“On this condition, and provided war is declared, Their Noble Mightinesses will offer you the Captain Generalship for one campaign, with option to continue the appointment or no at their discretion.”

“For one campaign——” repeated William.

“It was all, Highness, that our utmost endeavours could obtain.” M. Fagel spoke with humility.

William rose abruptly.

“Their Noble Mightinesses may spare themselves this offer, Mynheer,” he said hotly, “for I shall refuse the post.”

“Your Highness!”

The Prince turned on him, the whip clenched in his right hand.

“Unless the appointment is made for life I shall refuse it; and I marvel, Mynheer, that you should come to me with so paltry a compromise.”

“Your Highness will not be wise to reject it—your firmness will only further anger M. de Witt, who was with difficulty brought to this concession.”

“If you permit the Assembly to make this offer it will be declined,” returned William haughtily. “You may tell my friends so—I will not be put on trial nor be satisfied with such a poor honour.”

M. Fagel saw in this a proud indiscretion of youth. The dignity that the Prince despised had been wrung from John de Witt with much labour; to refuse it, M. Fagel, a man of cautious policy, thought unwise and dangerous.

“Your Highness will think of this——”

William interrupted—

“My decision is made, M. Fagel. I shall not depart from it.”

The Secretary ventured to protest—

“The advice of your friends——”

“No one’s advice, Mynheer, would alter my resolution.”

M. Fagel was twice the Prince’s age, and an experienced statesman; but he was dominated by William utterly. John de Witt and some few others were alone in coming in contact with the Prince and escaping his powerful, masterful influence. M. Fagel, a man in every way his inferior, he almost openly despised.

“There is not a man in the United Provinces does not desire my election,” he said. “The people are with me—Their High Mightinesses had better beware. Tell the Assembly no compromise will be accepted—none.”

He was breathing fast and with difficulty; it was obvious that he was unusually angry and unusually near to losing his self-control. He coughed, and took a quick turn about the room holding his hand to his side.

“I am sorry that we have disappointed Your Highness,” said M. Fagel, already stung into regretting that he and his party had been induced into giving way to the opposition of M. de Witt.

“Go back and do better,” answered William, with a flashing glance. “Are you afraid of M. the Grand Pensionary and his supporters? I have the people—you, and John de Witt, had best remember it——”

“I did what I could to serve Your Highness.”

“What you could?—when you bring this to me!”

M. Fagel strove to justify himself. The Prince silenced him haughtily.

“Is this a moment to show timidity—when M. de Witt carries it with a firm front? If you had not given way he had been forced to—I have both General Wurtz and Prince Charles, Prince John Maurice and de Ruyter on my side.”

M. Fagel could not forget that John de Witt was still the head of the Government.

“A compromise——” he began.

His smooth voice and the word he used stung the Prince into a rare exhibition of temper. He turned violently, with dark, fierce eyes and the whip bent double in his hand.

“Be damned to your compromise!” he cried. “John de Witt and the chaffering tradesmen who support him will have the French across the Rhine before the army is under canvas. I’ll have none of your cursed ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’—’tis all—or they save themselves.”

He snatched up his glove from where he had flung it on his entry.

“That is my answer, M. Fagel,” he said passionately, “and any remonstrance on the matter I shall consider an insult.”

The Secretary bowed.

He knew what de Pomponne had discovered, that the Prince was “tolerably firm and tolerably positive, and once he hath taken his resolution to argue with him is waste breath.”

He was aware, also, that what William wished he began to obtain, and that the expression “the country is with me” was no figment of speech.

The United Provinces were behind William of Orange, and to the rising power the prudent statesman made his court.

He already had learnt something of the character of the Prince he intended to serve, already guessed at something of the imperious passion behind the contained exterior.

Now he had proof of it, and it spurred and stimulated him. He bore not the least ill-will to William for his anger. It seemed that the Prince was one of those who are served and beloved without effort on their part. M. Fagel was more eager than ever to please him; in common with many others, the chance of William’s taciturn thanks was more to him than the certainty of M. de Witt’s courteous graciousness.

“We will do our best, Highness,” he said, rising from his chair.

William gave him a not wholly pleasant glance.

“Reflect on what I have said, M. Fagel,” he answered haughtily.

With that he flung open the door and was gone.

Mr. Bromley, waiting in the doorway in case his attendance was required, fell back at once before the sight of his master’s face as the Prince swept out into the sunlight.

The groom brought up the grey horse.

“Shall I accompany Your Highness?” ventured Mr. Bromley.

“No—I am not going to the ‘Huis ten bosch.’”

The Prince sprang into the saddle and caught up the reins.

Matthew Bromley, who knew him as well as any man was permitted to, saw that he was in a passionate ill-humour.

“See M. Fagel out of the house—and get out of the way, Bromley.”

The horse, mettlesome and fierce, like all the Prince’s animals, had grown restive with waiting, and tossed his head impatiently. But William held him in with an ease that betrayed a good deal of strength behind his delicate appearance.

“Stand out of the way,” he repeated, addressing Mr. Bromley and the groom.

“Is Your Highness going alone?”

The Prince thrust his whip under his arm and scowled at the speaker in a fashion that warned Mr. Bromley to be silent.

But the Englishman, disturbed at this rare passion on his master’s part, persisted—

“Where are you going, Sir; is there no message?”

William turned in the saddle to look at him.

“I have allowed you too much license,” he said violently, “but, by God! I am master among my own servants.”

Matthew Bromley stepped back and the Prince let the horse go; it sprang forward, and William disappeared through the Palace gates.

Without troubling where he went he turned towards the outskirts of the town, with the one idea of avoiding the people. He was fast becoming a popular hero, but he never loved the crowd save in the abstract. All public display of affection was distasteful to him; and to-day he was too roused and angry to risk the chance of meeting either M. de Witt or any member of the Assembly.

He had been defeated, bitterly disappointed. He was well used to taking both defeat and disappointment, but this time his passion had slipped his control. His bitter indignation against M. de Witt must find some vent … if it were only a fierce gallop out of the Hague.

He found himself on the klinker paved road, edged with a double row of straight trees. It led to Scheveningen, and with a quick memory of the sea he turned towards the coast. The hour was still early, and a frail sunshine quivered in the foliage and over the meadow-land that stretched either side the road.

Through the blue haze of the damp morning rose the tall, dark forms of windmills, with still sails poised against the delicate sky and the clean brickwork of farms, green shuttered and ornamented with lines of white; the black and white cattle, carefully covered with brown coats, were grazing in the long, rich, fresh grass; here and there a villa stood back among the trees with painted shutters open on treasures from the East—a glowing carpet, a Chinese bowl, or a gaudy Macaw chattering in an ebony ring.

The Prince slackened his pace.

Everything about him showed wealth, peace, and complete prosperity … the great dangers looming on land and sea cast no shadow here.…

Here was a country to be given to the conqueror; here was a rich and fertile kingdom for the insolent French to batten on.…

William gazed round with absorbed and resolute eyes as his horse’s hoofs rang out on the klinkers in slackened beat.

There were few people abroad, and the Prince, being unattended and attired like an ordinary gentleman, escaped notice; this fact, and the novel sense of absolute freedom, served to dispel his ill-humour.

He had been solitary of soul all his life, and so used to loneliness that he did not give it a name. But he had always been surrounded by enemies, watched, spied upon, and forced to weigh every word and every look; this sheer liberty of solitude was pleasant as it was new.

He cleared the houses and the trees and came out on to the dunes, low sand hillocks grown with scant poplar shrubs.

Avoiding the village of Scheveningen, the Prince took the winding road that led direct to the sea.

After a while the shrubs ceased and there was no growing thing—only the low, rolling billows of dry white sand pierced with withered and broken reeds. William rode slowly along the diminishing road, and cresting a sandy ridge came in sight of the immense stretch of quiet grey sea breaking in a curling line of foam on the desolate shore.

To his right, only a few yards above high-tide mark, stood a small church with a blue-and-red tiled roof.

The steps were half buried in sand, and up to the very door the gaily painted fishing-boats were drawn.

Behind and beyond were the dunes, broken only by the few houses of Scheveningen to the left.

The Prince drew a deep breath of pleasure at the pure salt air, at the quiet dunes and the misty sea, whose waves broke regularly with a strong, falling sound.

He guided his horse over the shifting sand towards the church, and as he neared it his keen glance perceived an old man seated on the edge of one of the boats mending tawny nets.

A great flight of sea-birds, graceful, chattering, a strong, flashing white in the pale sunshine, rose up as the horseman disturbed their solitude, and flew out across the waveless sea.

The fisher was roused too by the unusual sound of jingling harness.

He looked up, and seeing a gentleman riding slowly across the sand, the while he gazed thoughtfully out to sea, he dropped his net and stared. He was used to gentlefolk from the Hague—but not so early in the year as this.

The horse William rode was magnificent, of a Flemish breed, a stone grey and shining like polished granite; he wore the least possible harness, and his full, intelligent eyes were uncovered; he arched his neck and trod daintily into the sand that shifted under his hoofs.

The fisherman stared stolidly at the horse, then lifted his eyes to the rider.

He beheld a slight young man in a brown greatcoat and a rough beaver with a black feather, black velvet breeches and waistcoat, top-boots, and a plain cravat of Frisian needlework.

His face was turned towards the sea, and only his heavy auburn hair was visible under his broad-leaved hat.

The fisherman turned his attention again to the horse, as the more interesting of the two.

Then suddenly the Prince turned and looked at him.

The fisherman doffed his cap.

“Good morning, Mynheer.”

“Good morning,” answered the Prince, and swerved the horse towards the fishing-boats and the church.

“We have no wind to-day,” said the fisherman, picking up his net.

“No.” William was observing him.

He was a stout, red-faced man, clad in huge dark blue breeches, a striped turquoise coloured shirt, woollen hose, heavy wooden sabots, and a round red cap.

His throat was covered by an emerald green scarf; he held a thick pipe between his lips, and on a finger of his left hand shone a large gold ring.

He surveyed the Prince with a calm curiosity.

“We do not see many strangers at Scheveningen,” he remarked, “as early as this.”

“No,” the Prince assented. “Yet it is very pleasant here.”

“Have you come from the town, Mynheer?” He indicated the Hague by a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.

“Even so.”

“I was up there—last Sunday.”

William said nothing, but he did not look forbidding.

“There was a riot,” continued the fisherman, with a kind of reserved interest.

“There often is.”

“It was outside the Stadhuis.”

“I heard of it.”

“The people were shouting against M. de Witt.”

“It is not uncommon.”

The fisherman looked up from his net.

“Are you a soldier, Mynheer?”

“At present I am merely a private citizen; but I think I shall some day be a soldier.”

The man shifted his pipe between his teeth.

“If there is war, Mynheer?”

“Yes, if there is war.”

The fisherman nodded approvingly.

“We shall all need to be soldiers if we want to keep the French out, Mynheer.”

William delicately guided his horse a little nearer.

“I should like to go into the church.”

“Well, it is open, Mynheer.”

At this the Prince dismounted.

“Where can I secure my horse?” he asked.

“There is a house behind the church——”

“Deserted, it seems.”

“He was killed under de Ruyter, and his wife died last year”—the fisherman gave slow information. “A youngster from the Hague has it now, but you can fasten up your horse to the door-post.”

William gave grave thanks, and led the horse across the sloping sand hillocks and secured him carefully to one of the stakes comprising the broken fencing that surrounded the closed house.

When he returned the fisherman had bent over his work as if he had forgotten him.

But the Prince did not enter the church; he came and stood with one hand resting on the long fishing-boat, his eyes fixed on the sea.

The early sunlight had already faded.

A pale mist blew off the water and hurried across the land; the great expanse was bounded by the curtain of vapour and the little village blotted out of sight.

Shore and ocean were grey together, divided only by the white, breaking line of the surf murmuring on the beach.

Vague and endless the sand dunes stretched against the sky pierced with the straight clusters of reeds, dry and gaunt.

The large, white sea-birds flew out of the curling fog and settled along the wet line of shining sand the retreating foam left bare.

The fisherman turned a heavy gaze on the motionless figure of the stranger.

“You are new to the Hague?”

“No, I have lived there all my life.”

“What brings you to Scheveningen, Mynheer?”

The man spoke sullenly, almost as if he resented the intrusion.

William turned.

“I wished to see—that.”

He pointed to the quiet ocean.

The Netherlander nodded; it was a feeling he could understand.

“Also,” added William, “I was in an ill-humour and came here to be rid of it.”

“It is quiet enough.”

“Yes.”

They were both so used to the mist that they scarcely noticed it.

“Will the boats go abroad to-day?” asked the Prince.

“There is no wind.”

The net gathered in a great heap at the fisherman’s feet as his long needle flew over the meshes; he moved, and the dried seaweed crackled under his sabots.

“I saw de Ruyter’s fleet go past—when I was on my herring boat—two days ago … great ships … I thought the lanterns on the masts were stars.”

“They are under weigh to meet the India fleet,” answered the Prince.

“Ay, they say the English are waiting to drop on us—because of the herring fisheries too. Do you believe that, Mynheer?”

William seated himself on the end of the boat.

“I do,” he answered briefly.

An intent look came into the old man’s face that was cut and seamed like a walnut-shell and the colour of bronze above his vivid scarf.

“You think there will be war?”

“I do,” said William again.

“With France?”

“And England.”

The fisherman’s eyes, that were still a bright blue, narrowed to slits of light.

“De Ruyter beat the English once—I remember it—when they brought home the Royal Charles.”

“That is what they would make us pay for now.”

“M. de Witt is for peace.”

William bent his whip across his knee.

“Nevertheless I think it will be war … the French are on the frontier.”

“Curse M. de Witt!”

The Prince looked at the man sharply.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he would sell us all to the French.”

William smiled scornfully.

“I thought it was the Prince of Orange of whom they said that——”

“The Prince!—it is the Prince of Orange who will save us.”

William slightly flushed.

“You think so?” he asked softly.

“Ay, I know it, Mynheer.”

The answer was given with simple, unconscious confidence, and the Prince’s colour deepened.

“I am not the only one who thinks so either,” continued the fisherman, taking out his pipe; “it is the thought of all the Netherlands.”

“Yet you know nothing of William of Orange.”

“He has had no chance … M. de Witt’s prisoner … but now M. de Witt will go.”

William looked at the ever changing, never ending line of surf. He was now pale, even to the lips, and was so long silent that it seemed suspicious to the other.

“Perhaps you are one of the Grand Pensionary’s men,” he suggested, with an accent of dislike.

“I am no friend to John de Witt.”

The fisherman chuckled, relieved.

“I think he has not many friends left now.”

“The Assembly support him,” answered William slowly.

“And the people support the Prince … let him ask for anything we will give it him.”

William turned his brilliant eyes on the speaker.

“Why are you so devoted to His Highness?” he asked.

The fisherman reflected; he seemed puzzled.

“I know not—he is William of Orange,” he answered at last.

“You would trust him with the Captain Generalship——?”

“With everything—by God, I would! we are tired of M. de Witt.”

The Prince coughed and made no answer.

Knocking the ashes out of his pipe, the fisherman spoke again—

“He has kept the Prince out of his inheritance for twenty years.”

“’Tis so,” said William quietly.

“Well, now he is going to pay for it.”

“You think so?”

“Wait and see, Mynheer.”

William smiled.

“I have been waiting to see—for a long while.”

“Then you are for the Prince too;” the fisherman expressed a stolid satisfaction.

“I am for my country,” replied William evasively, “and that is a bigger question.… It is not the Grand Pensionary or the Prince … but our freedom or our downfall.”

“William of Orange will save us,” repeated the fisherman.

William smiled, half bitterly.

“I wonder.”

The other was roused to argument.

“That has been said to me before—it was by Heinrich Potts—‘Your Prince has never heard a shot nor been under canvas,’ he said—‘and he has no strength to live through one campaign.’”

He paused.

William looked down at him as he methodically refilled his pipe.

“Well?—the first is true—the second well may prove so.”

“I answered nothing to that—but he added—‘Your Prince is in league with his uncle—why not?—and the King of France. If we give him the power, he’ll sell us all to them.’”

“I have heard that before,” said William slowly, looking out to sea.

“Well, Mynheer, I never believed it—but Potts said, ‘Why not?’ … and I emptied his tankard in his face.… He said M. de Witt was a good man.”

“I think he is,” commented William dryly.

“But you are for the Prince?” urged the fisherman. “He will save us from M. de Witt and from the French,” he added.

There was a pause, then the old Netherlander began anew—

“They say the Prince of Tarentum pays court to him, and wants him to marry his daughter. Do you think that is true?”

“M. de Tarentum flies too high; I do not think the Prince will marry a subject.”

“I am glad of it.”

He looked up shrewdly into the young man’s face.

“You are from the Hague, you will know something of affairs——”

He paused.

“Do you know anything of the Prince?” he asked at length.

William turned his head away. “A little.”

The fisherman spread his huge brown hands on his knees.

“What do you think he will do, Mynheer?—in the matter of the war?”

“You believe in him, you say?”

“Ay, I do … to hell with M. de Witt!”

“Then, believing in him, ye know well what he will do.”

“Defy the French?”

William kept his gaze upon the sea.

“That would be madness, they say.”

“Defy them—that is what the Prince will do, I swear to ye, Mynheer!”

With that he tilted his head a little and watched the long wreaths of blue smoke disappear into the misty air.

William was silent, slightly frowning; his expression was thoughtful, as if he considered weighty matters.

The mist seemed to gather and deepen; it broke against the old church and hurried away across the sand dunes, blotting them out.

A little sound like a satisfied sigh, repeated once or twice, came from somewhere near the Prince. He looked round, and saw in the bottom of the boat against which he leaned a large and gaily dressed child, sitting up and rubbing its eyes.

Conscious in a moment of the gaze turned on it, with surprising rapidity it scrambled out of the boat and shook out voluminous skirts.

It wore a tight bodice worked with yellow and red roses, striped sleeves of blue and white, and enormous skirts of a bright green colour that stuck out as if the little person had been thrust through a half apple.

A close lace cap was drawn over its head, and from under it hung long, pale yellow curls, framing a smooth, expressionless face of rosy brown with large china-blue eyes.

The fisherman gave it a stolid nod.

William turned on it the remote but curious gaze of youth surveying infancy.

“Is it a boy?” he asked.

“My grandson, Mynheer.”

The fisherman pointed out in the back of the baby’s cap the coloured button that showed its sex.

“He has been asleep in the boat … he sleeps all day.”

The baby collapsed rather than sat down on the wreaths of dry seaweed and stared stolidly at the Prince.

A couple of screaming sea-birds started up from the mist-drenched land and flew out across the grey depths of shrouded sea.

“The wind is getting up,” remarked the fisherman. “The boats will be able to put out to-night.”

William took no notice, he seemed absorbed in his own thoughts.

“Tell me what you think the Prince will do,” urged the fisherman, who was beginning to feel some awe of the stranger. “What kind of a man is he?” he added, jerking the nets across his knee.

The baby staggered to its feet, shaking a coral and silver ornament depending from its waist; it fell at once on its face, with an unchanged expression rose again and clutched at the Prince’s hand to steady itself.

“He wants to get into the boat again,” said William respectfully.

The baby blinked up at him and kept a tight grasp on his glove.

The Prince deferred to the grandfather as to what line of action was to be taken with this novelty.

“Shall I put him into the boat again?” he asked.

“Nay, Mynheer, let him be—he sleeps too much, that is why he is so fat.”

“I like him,” said William gravely. “I have never seen a child so close before.”

The fisherman was not enthusiastic; he returned to his point.

“What can you tell me of the Prince, Mynheer?”

William gave him an intent look.

“What can I tell you of the Prince of Orange?”

His gaze fastened itself once more on the line of surf, ever falling, ever renewed; his manner dropped into an absorption.

“He had an unhappy childhood,” he said—“I think so.… He was a prisoner … and he had high desires … also he was weakly, ill-health made his days a burden to him … he knew always that he could not live at the utmost to more than middle life.… Well, his life had been maimed for him before he was born … and with the loneliness and the humiliation, and the long hours of pain, he was sometimes near despair … but God supported him … I believed, always——… What was I saying?… He believed in predestination … so I think; … that God had set him apart, made him so different from other men, because He had an especial mission for him … the protection of the Church of the Reformed Religion … he believed in that always … and he hated the French and the Romish Faith … and he loved his country.”

The speaker’s voice fell very low.

“I can say this for him … that while he draws his breath—such as these,” he looked down at the little child, “shall not inherit slavery … the Netherlands shall own no second Alva.…”

The fisherman sat silent.

“That is all I know of the Prince of Orange,” added William. “As yet he hath had no chance … no chance to prove himself.”

“Ye know him very well,” said the old man after a weighty pause. “And I am sure that he is even as you say. A second Alva! King Louis would be a second Philip—but we have still a William of Orange.”

The baby had dropped to the sand again, and the Prince rose, turned, and without further word entered the humble church.

For a moment he stood at the door, looking at the whitewashed interior, the stiff wooden pews, the tablets to the memory of sailors, and the little brass models of ships that hung from the rafters; thank-offerings from those who had escaped dire perils at sea.

In his ears was the perpetual roar of the waves, and in his nostrils the salt breeze of the ocean.

After a while he returned to the boats and walked up and down thoughtfully.

“The youngsters will be coming to the farm,” remarked the fisherman. “They have a printing press there.”

“Ah, who are they?” asked the Prince sharply.

“Young men from the Hague—Orangists—they print pamphlets against M. de Witt—I know it—they composed that last, Advice to every Faithful Hollander—they talk big too—Jounker Van der Graef is one—and his father a magistrate!”

The child was crawling round the edge of the boat; it lifted a grave face to the Prince, who stooped and picked it up.

Twenty-five years or so afterwards, when a great king who had broken the power of France, freed England, and formed one of the hugest coalitions the world has known, famous as a statesman, glorious as a soldier, died in a palace very far from Scheveningen—his life-work done, a young fisherman amid the grief of Holland recalled with awe that William of Orange had once held him in his arms.…

William placed him gently in the boat, then turned rather sharply.

“What is that?” he asked.

Through the rise and fall of the surf might be distinctly heard the sound of approaching people, talking, and even laughing, as if they had lost their way in the mist.

“The Jounker Van der Graef and his companions,” said the fisherman.

“They are coming here?”

“As I said, Mynheer.”

The Prince hastened to loosen his horse and to remount, but as he leapt to the saddle several figures emerged out of the fog.

William turned the grey horse away from Scheveningen towards the undulating, obscure lines of the sand dunes.

But they had seen him.

“A stranger!” cried the foremost.

The Prince gave a glance at him over his shoulder.

“Ah!” Jacob Van der Graef caught his breath and fell back a pace.

The Prince put spurs to his horse and galloped away along the dunes; in a moment he was a mere shadowy shape against the sea fog.

Jacob Van der Graef ran down the beach to where the old fisherman sat.

“The Prince of Orange!” he cried excitedly. “What was he doing here?…”

William, riding through the grey loneliness, was thinking of these hot-head conspirators.

“They are fools,” he said. “But there are times when fools may be useful.”

CHAPTER IV
THE DEFEAT OF M. DE WITT

Matthew Bromley was summoned to the great, formal audience chamber of the Palace. It was twilight, and the Prince not yet returned.

In the Palace and in the Hague a great excitement loomed and gathered. The Assembly had sat all day; fearful rumours were current as to the safety of the India fleet and the reason of de Ruyter’s silence.

Mr. Bromley carried a copy of The Gazette, as he entered the room where the two gentlemen waited for His Highness.

By the feeble candlelight that but faintly dispelled the lowering shadows he saw them; one Florent Van Mander, the other a fair and handsome gentleman, young, and very elegantly attired in a grey velvet and silver riding suit.

“Ah, Mr. Bromley, have you quite forgotten me?” The newcomer rose and held out his hand.

The Englishman was genuinely pleased.

“M. Bentinck!”

“At last!—returned from exile as you see. Where is His Highness? Abroad they tell me.”

“Abroad certainly—where, I do not know.”

M. Bentinck raised his brows.

“Does no one know?”

Mr. Bromley nodded at Van Mander.

“Sir, M. Fagel came to see His Highness this morning—and afterwards the Prince left the house in a passion.”

“Alone?” M. Bentinck looked considerably surprised.

“Alone.”

“He is no longer under any supervision?”

“None at all now, sir. M. de Witt has had to cede his authority little by little, till he has none left——”

“In all the United Provinces, I think,” smiled M. Bentinck. “Oh, Mynheer, I am tired, I have lain sick a week at Hertogenbosch.”

He seated himself in one of the heavy leather chairs, and his gay face and rich clothes made a brightness in the large and sombre chamber.

“Shall I not order dinner for you?” asked Mr. Bromley.

“No—I thank you, we dined on the road.”

Florent retained his seat by the window, composed and grave, pulling at his hat and feather that he held across his knee; his taciturnity seemed to absolve the others from the unusual in leaving him out of their conversation.

“How goes His Highness’ affair in the Assembly?” asked M. Bentinck.

“It was concerning that M. Fagel came this morning——”

“M. Fagel has turned courtier?”

“As have some others—yes!”

M. Bentinck leant back in his chair. His attractive face was thoughtful; he fingered the ribbon on his velvet cuff.

“We received garbled reports in Brandenburg—what do you think, Mr. Bromley, of the chances of war?”

The Englishman shrugged his shoulders.

“De Pomponne hath been withdrawn and no other sent—in spite of M. de Witt’s representations. No concession will pacify King Louis——”

“He cannot forgive the Triple Alliance.”

“No—and some other things—the medal and Van Beuningen’s embassy.”

M. Bentinck lifted his blue eyes—

“And the English?”

Matthew Bromley laughed.

“Well, they say the English are as insolent as the French. Temple was recalled and Sir George Downing sent—to provoke a war, I truly think. You heard of the Treaty of Dover?—well, King Charles protests love to His Highness always, but hates the States.… I am not a soldier nor a diplomat … if war is declared I shall go home.”

“Leave the Prince’s service?”

“I am English,” said Matthew Bromley lightly. He went to the mantelshelf and snuffed the candles.

M. Bentinck frowned.

“The English people—the English Parliament are not friendly to the French.”

Mr. Bromley agreed heartily.

“It is solely Charles Stewart.” Then he laughed again.

“Did you hear of the Merlin?”

“Sir William’s yacht, was it not?”

“Yes; taking Lady Temple home the yacht passed through your fleet and demanded the salute—fired on your flag—captain told to, of course; is in the Tower now for not doing more—what does that look like but war?”

“The pretexts are utterly wanton and frivolous,” remarked M. Bentinck.

“M. de Witt hath ceded the salute of the flag.”

The young Dutch noble flushed swiftly.

“Doth he still hope to obtain peace?”

Mr. Bromley shrugged his shoulders.

“Downing made some impossible demands—he is a ruffler sent to cause friction, of course. I should say his secret orders were to provoke a war by any means.”

He paused, then added with meaning—

“But both the Kings protest friendship to His Highness—his uncle saith one of his grievances against the Republic is that the Prince hath been kept so long out of his offices.”

M. Bentinck rose.

“You think His Highness and his friends are safe enough,” he said quietly.

“Yes—but I would not give much for the safety of M. de Witt.”

As he spoke the door was flung wide and the Prince entered with an unusual impetuosity.

Van Mander, unnoticed by all, rose to his feet in the shadows of the window.

“Bentinck!” exclaimed William; he dashed his hat down on a chair inside the door. “Bentinck!”

“Your Highness!”

The young man sank to one knee and kissed the Prince’s hands.

William raised him.

“You are well?—you have recovered?” he asked eagerly.

“Completely—to see the Hague and you again, Highness, would have cured me had I been far sicker.”

William gazed intently into the fair, ardent face.

“You must come upstairs with me—how dark and cold it is here——”

He looked round and saw Matthew Bromley standing by the mantelshelf.

At once he crossed over to him.

“Bromley, I spoke violently to you this morning,” he said, “and I am sorry—will you forgive me?”

It was William’s habit to make instant reparation for his rare outbursts of passion, but Mr. Bromley had not expected he would ask pardon of his own gentleman.

“M. Fagel vexed me,” continued the Prince. “I had no fault to find with you.”

Mr. Bromley coloured and stood in a foolish confusion.

William offered his hand with the graceful courtesy he knew so well how to use.

Mr. Bromley flushed more deeply with gratification and pleasure.

“It was nothing—Your Highness,” he protested, and the Prince had secured a lifelong devotion.

It did not occur to Mr. Bromley to call his master’s graciousness policy, the obvious sincerity of William’s rare advances was what gave them their value.

He was above any arts, making no efforts to gain supporters. There were already men who would have died for his praise and performed heroic feats to avoid his blame.

He smiled at Mr. Bromley and caught M. Bentinck by the arm.

“Highness, I return in the midst of great events.”

William turned the smile on him and drew him from the room.

M. Bentinck adored the Prince, not more so than many, not more so perhaps than Florent Van Mander, standing unnoticed, unthought of, but William had chosen to bestow on him his friendship.

William Bentinck was intelligent; he had always been blindly loyal to the House of Nassau. He was of a rare good looks and attractiveness, and had been the Prince’s page when they were children. William admitted him to his closest confidence, and was more open with him than with any; none knowing better, however, than William Bentinck, that in any serious matter he had not the slightest influence with his master.

The Prince would do anything to please him in trivial affairs; but he was his own counsellor, those associated with him were no more than the lieutenants of his will.

Without words this was understood between them. Bentinck offered neither advice nor criticism.

His first words when they were alone were characteristic—

“What are you going to do, Highness? In what way can I help you?” he asked eagerly.

William looked at him as if the sight of his glowing handsomeness was a pleasure.

The smile was still on his lips; it seemed as if he would not be drawn into serious questions. His attitude was rather like that of a man to a woman whom he loves but must always with a half laugh condescend to when it concerns the discussion of large issues.

“Tell me of your journey—and sickness,” he said. “You have changed very little,” he added, with a deepening of his smile.

“And you have changed a great deal,” replied Bentinck, gazing at him eagerly.

“Do you think so?”

They had reached the quiet library; the Prince sat beside his friend on an oak settle that stood against the wall.

The room was golden from end to end with the light of candles and a silver lamp placed on the desk, where it cast a strong glow over a bowl of orange and purple tulips. The curtains were not drawn, and each of the long windows framed a picture of blue twilight, trees, and sky.

“What of M. de Witt?” asked Bentinck. “It seems to me he cannot long keep the power—every village I rode through seethed with discontent.”

“Tell me of yourself, my lord,” urged William affectionately. “I have been without friends so long.”

“Of myself! You jest, Highness—I, an exile, newly returned to the theatre of great events!”

William sighed.

“There is very little to tell you … there will be war, of course.”

“And the Captain Generalship?”

“M. Fagel was here this morning to offer it to me—for one campaign.”

“And you?”

William smiled anew into the young man’s comely, ardent face; now with a half mournful air.

“I refused.”

“Unconditionally?”

“Yes.”

“My faith!” cried M. Bentinck, “that was a bold move, Highness.”

“I think it will prove a successful one.”

William spoke as if he explained himself from a pure effort of friendship, and would have preferred to talk of other things.

“M. de Witt was at the back of that.”

“Of course.”

“Who are his men?”

“Prince John Maurice, Prince Charles, Major-General Wurtz—and M. de Montbas.”

“None of them his friends—save the last.”

“No. I have their promise not to accept the post, if it be offered them—the promise of the first three, I mean.”

“And Prince Charles’ daughter?”

William looked at him keenly.

“Who told you that?”

“The Elector spoke to me of it—said Prince Charles would be pleased to make an alliance on those terms.”

“They are too high,” answered the Prince. “Think no more of it—I have refused.”

“And the French match?”

William unexpectedly coloured.

“King Louis wished a French Princess to seal his friendship—did he not?” continued M. Bentinck.

The Prince rose, coughing a little, and crossed to the hearth.

“The French Ambassador at Berlin told me so much——”

William answered sternly—

“No doubt my cousin Louis thought it a great honour.… I told M. de Pomponne that my House was used to contract alliances with royalty—I do not wish to quarter the bend sinister with my coat.”

“King Louis will never forgive that.”

“He protests he is my very good friend … he thinks he may have use for me.… This war, if it please you, is largely on my behalf … to punish the ingratitude of the Republic.”

William walked up and down the hearth. He still wore his roquelaure, and clasped his hands behind him under the full skirts.

“Whatever he may say he will never forgive that,” repeated M. Bentinck.

“It is I who will never forgive,” said William, “that he should so have mistaken how I rate myself.”

“Well, and there will be war?” flashed the other, leaning forward.

“This spring, I think.… The pretexts are utterly wanton—you heard of the Merlin incident?”

“Some account, yes.”

“And my uncle Charles has sent one Downing over, an insupportable swashbuckler. Temple was a good fellow, and friendly, therefore he was removed.”

“It will be England too, you think?”

“Yes; but I have hopes of my uncle Charles.”

Then William turned to face his companion.

“Did you hear of their complaints?” he asked in an amused tone. “My uncle protests that the Royal Charles, decked with English flags, was shown for a penny a head to gaping boors, thereupon M. de Witt sends the flags back and withdraws the ship——”

“A poor-spirited move!” cried M. Bentinck.

“As if my uncle was a man to care for his country’s prestige! Then it was His Christian Majesty—he complains that Van Beuningen after his return from the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle was presented with a medal making mock of His Majesty.”

William, never devoid of humour, laughed outright, showing his white teeth in genuine amusement.

“The noble city of Amsterdam was accused of this—‘Nec pluribus impar’ is His Majesty’s motto, and they had a presentment of King Sun with his rays clipped, and this inscription, ‘In conspectu meo stelit sol.’ There were other offences too; pamphlets printed at the Hague insulting the omnipotent. Poor M. de Witt and Van Beuningen have been rushing to and fro trying to appease the offended deity.”

He added in a graver tone—

“But of course Louvois is behind it—he is jealous of our commerce.”

“M. de Witt, I take it, still hopes for peace?”

“Even M. de Witt,” answered William, “will not be able to indulge that hope much longer, I think.”

He rested his elbow against the mantelshelf and took his face in his hand; the candlelight fell softly on his thick bright hair and sparkled in the green ring on his little finger.

M. Bentinck sat silent, gazing at his master. He could not quite understand the Prince’s attitude.

He had never considered William as one with the United Provinces, but rather as their enemy.

What, therefore, would be his attitude in the forthcoming war?

It was against the Republic the furies of France were directed, not against William of Orange.

In the invasion of his country he might find his own advantage. He was in no way bound to the service of a State that had never placed any confidence in him but had treated him as a prisoner all his life.

His obvious policy lay in a compact with France, but so far he appeared to have rejected such overtures as had been made to him.

“I cannot see clearly how you stand, Highness,” said M. Bentinck at last, puzzled.

“No?” In no man’s company did the Prince smile so much. “My attitude is rather difficult to define, is it not, my child?”

William was three or four years younger than M. Bentinck, and half a head shorter, but the expression did not sound foolish on his lips.

“How will war help you?” asked M. Bentinck thoughtfully.

The Prince did not seem inclined to answer this.

“I have had a whole day of idleness,” he said. “For the first time since—I cannot remember when—I went to Scheveningen—idle but not useless. I encountered an old man there—and a child—his confidence!”

William turned towards the settee.

“They all look to me to save them—does not that seem curious—after all M. de Witt has done?”

M. Bentinck caressed the fine lace at his wrist.

“It is certainly strange M. de Witt should be so disliked,” he answered.

“It is his peace policy. Confess, is it not stranger that I should be beloved?”

M. Bentinck smiled.

“I cannot think so, Highness.”

“They know nothing of me—they give me the credit of my name.”

The Prince turned to the window now and looked out on to the darkening prospect of trees and sky.

“M. de Witt hath opposed me most bitterly in the Assembly,” he said. “I think he called me some hard names—an inexperienced boy. Ah! what I have taken from that man, William. M. Jacob de Witt does not forget Loevenstein—nor do I——”

He coughed and abruptly changed the subject.

“Do you remember what they did to the children when Alva had rule here, William?… I saw a child to-day, on the sands … do you think the French would be more merciful than the Spanish?—their Romish faith!… King Louis hopes to celebrate Mass at the Hague.…”

“If the peace negotiations fail what could one do?” asked M. Bentinck. “We have de Ruyter, but there is no captain to hold the French back on the land.”

“One might arise,” answered the Prince.

“You think——?”

William cut him short.

“We talk too weightily. I have had no dinner, you must dine again to keep me company. How are my uncle the Elector and my cousin Charlotte?”

M. Bentinck rose.

“It could be a match there, if you wished, Highness. You see there are many courting your alliance.”

“I am already adept in the art of saying ‘no,’” answered the Prince.

“It would please the Elector and the Princess Dowager—I do not think the lady herself would be averse——”

William frowned.

“It is not even to be considered—my fortunes are too unsettled for me to think of a wife. Ah, here is Bromley.”

He turned quickly at his gentleman’s entrance.

“A message from the Assembly, Bromley?”

“Yes, Highness.”

The Prince took the letter that was offered him and flashed a look at M. Bentinck.

“M. Fagel come to his senses, I believe,” he said, and tore the seal.

Mr. Bromley explained.

“The Assembly has just risen, Highness; the messenger came here at once he said—from M. Zuylestein.”

A swift colour had come into the Prince’s thin cheeks.

“Yes, it is from M. Zuylestein.”

He glanced over the letter, then handed it to M. Bentinck.

“Read it, William; it is as I thought it must be.”

M. Bentinck cast his eyes over the writing; the ink of it barely dry, the sweeps of the quill blotted in the writer’s haste.

“The Binnenhof, Feb. 20, 1672

“Your Highness,—We have news from de Ruyter that the India fleet was attacked by the English, but by God his grace saved—war is inevitable. Their Noble Mightinesses have appointed you Captain General of the land and sea forces for life. Accept my humble congratulations on this success. I write in haste. Your servant,

“Frederick of Nassau.”

“Then it is done!” cried M. Bentinck. “Highness, I am beyond measure pleased—this is the more a triumph that it hath not been undisputed——”

“It is the attempt on the India fleet hath decided them,” returned the Prince. “Only this morning they offered a compromise——”

Then he looked straightly and keenly at Mr. Bromley.

“Your King has attacked M. de Ruyter,” he said. “England will declare war on the United Provinces … perhaps you would wish to leave my service?”

Matthew Bromley laughed and coloured in a half confusion.

“’Tis a long while since I was home, sir.”

“But you are English.”

“I am not a Romanist, sir.”

“Still an Anglican,” said the Prince, as if he considered the one creed almost as offensive as the other, but his eyes were kindly.

Mr. Bromley bowed.

“I serve Your Highness, not the United Provinces,” he said, with the air of one who has cut a Gordian knot.

William folded up his uncle’s letter.

“The United Provinces have made me Captain General, Bromley—I am in their service now.”

“I will stay if Your Highness will have me,” was the Englishman’s answer. He smiled a little humorously. “England is probably in the wrong,” he said; his thought was that William was right—right for ever in Mr. Bromley’s eyes after those words to him that evening.

The Prince smiled.

“I am glad to keep you.”

“May I give Your Highness my congratulations and good wishes?”

“Thank you, Bromley.”

The Englishman withdrew.

“This is something to have wrung from M. de Witt,” cried M. Bentinck excitedly. “’Tis a violation of the terms of the Act of Harmony.”

“He would have been wiser to have given it,” said William slowly. “I begged him to—I was certain of it from the first.”

With a little cough he moved to the mantelshelf again. He seemed in no way elated or moved, weary rather. He fell again into the reserved silence M. Bentinck’s home-coming had dispelled, and looked in an absorbed and thoughtful manner on the ground.

His friend could not quite understand. A thousand ardours clutched at his heart that he could not express; he saw in the Captain Generalship a step to the Stadtholdership—but what of the war?

“War is inevitable, M. de Zuylestein says——”

“It has been so ever since M. de Pomponne was recalled—De Courtin’s nomination was a mere farce—M. de Witt would never see it,” answered the Prince.

“You speak of France?”

“Meaning England also—what hath she become but King Louis’ tool?” He put his hand to his brow. “Come to dinner, William, and speak of other things.”

CHAPTER V
THE DECLARATION OF WAR

“I write this for your private satisfaction, and that you may be fully informed of how affairs stand with me, and that way be better able to help us, as I am sure you have the will.

“Since war was declared in London my burdens have become almost intolerable. I usually work from eight in the morning till nine at night, often without touching food, and still cannot get through all there is to do. Their High Mightinesses have allowed my clerk, M. Van den Bosch, to take my place in the Assembly and make notes of the speeches, and have also permitted me to share some of my duties with M. Vivien, otherwise I could not do it.

“The labour is incredible, and on all sides I am rewarded with complaints; the forced loans raise a storm of dissent, yet there is bitter railing that the Army is reduced and the forts dismantled. I am accused of every corruption conceivable, from a secret understanding with M. de Louvois to the taking of the Secret Service money for my own uses.

“I tell you this to show something of the state the country is in; the voices of prudence, justice, and common sense can scarce be heard among the clamour of the factions. My desire for peace is regarded with suspicion, and my opposition to the violation of the Act of Harmony as a crime.

“The Prince of Orange had to take the oaths never to attempt, or even accept, the Stadtholdership, on his appointment to the Captain Generalship.

“But what are oaths in these times?

“Few have lately shown themselves jealous of their word. The magistrates, frightened by the people, lean to the side of the Prince, and I fear we have knocked away the keystone of our liberty.

“This young man wishes to be absolute; he shows his imperious temper more clearly every day. He has already given marks of his dislike to Colonel Bampfield and other officers in my confidence.

“M. Fagel is utterly on his side, and M. Heinsius; only M. de Groot (at present dismissed by his French Majesty from Paris), M. Beuningen, and M. Vivien remain staunch.

“My brother Cornelius departed for the Fleet the 9th of this month. He is so crippled with rheumatism that he hath to direct his ship from an arm-chair on the deck; the Lord God guard him.

“You see I give you family news, knowing that your love for me will tolerate it. At present I have in my house my sister, her husband, my father, and my children, who are just returned from a visit to their uncle, Bicker Van Swieten.

“They desire their kind remembrances to you.

“The last news is that the King of France has joined his troops at Charleroi and so opened the campaign.

“The Prince of Orange starts to-morrow for his camp; his headquarters are to be at Bodegraven. My heart misgives me that such an untried boy should be put in complete command of our sole defences.

“But it is astonishing what enthusiasm there is for him in the Army. General Wurtz and Prince John Maurice both declare he is worth 100,000 men, and M. de Ruyter says his sailors work better now His Highness is at the head of things.

“His popularity is at fever height. He further pleases the people by declaring for war, and wishing to break off the negotiations I have with so much labour been keeping open. It seems as if I could do nothing right and he nothing wrong.

“God help us in our extremity.

“I cannot tell you how I miss the pleasure of your company. I know that this lamentable war is the defeat of your policy as it is of mine, and that you wish us nothing but good; it is another motive for me to desire to be free of these unhappy times, that we might meet and converse again. Keep me in your heart always, I pray you, and write to me privately when you have the leisure.

“MM. Condé, Turenne, Vauban, and Luxemberg are with His Majesty at Charleroi, and one of the finest armies, I hear, that ever left France. I still keep up a correspondence with M. de Louvois, but I have little hope of obtaining reason and justice from a rapacious minister and a vainglorious king.

“But He who hath put these afflictions on me will teach me how to bear them, and I must not repine against what He chooses to lay on me.

“Give my loving duty to your lady, and take as much yourself from one who will always be your friend,

“John de Witt.

“Given at my house in the Kneuterdyk Avenue, May 17, 1672. The Hague.”

The Grand Pensionary shook the sand over his letter, folded and sealed it, then wrote on the cover in his refined, clear hand: “To the Honourable Sir William Temple, Baronet, at his residence at Sheen, in the County of Surrey, England.”

It was late afternoon. When the Grand Pensionary rose and raised his eyes he saw a glimmer of gold and green through the window beside his desk, the quiver of the trees, the glow of the sunshine in the garden, which was filled with narcissi, daffodils, and tulips arranged in circles, half-moons, and straight bars of colour among the close grass and neat gravel-paths.

Under the limes sat Anna de Witt with her spinning-wheel, which made a swift, gentle sound as her foot touched the treadle. The sunshine rested on her smooth yellow hair and white cap, and on her rich but simple grey satin gown.

On a low stool beside her sat Agneta, also in grey, for the daughters of John de Witt were still in mourning for their mother.

About their feet the pigeons gathered and strutted, pearl coloured and white, and grey the hue of Anna’s flax.

John de Witt stood for a moment at the window looking at the quiet little figures under the trees, then he turned away quickly and was about to touch a bell on his table when Jacob de Witt entered the library.

“Ah, I did not know that you were at home, sir,” said the Grand Pensionary.

“I can do very little till the States sit again,” answered the old man, “very little.”

He seated himself by the blue-tiled hearth and clasped his hand round the black stick he carried.

This last month or so had given him his full age; his head trembled a little and his shoulders were bowed.

“You are so seldom here now, John,” he said wistfully.

“Sir, I am here now but for a while, I must leave instantly.”

“Where are you going?”

John de Witt crossed to his father’s chair.

“The Prince leaves for the Army to-morrow, sir, and I think it desirable that I should see him first.”

Jacob de Witt sighed.

“To the end,” his son added, “that no private bitterness may endanger our safety—His Highness must know that I shall second him with my whole power.”

“He knows that already.”

“I have not seen him,” John de Witt answered slowly, “since he was invested with the Captain Generalship—he is surrounded by those who are no friends to me. There must be some understanding between us,” he repeated anxiously—“some understanding.”

The old man straightened himself in his chair, his dim eyes seemed to gather fire—

“What understanding can there be between you and this young man, John? Son of a bad House, of the cursed Stewarts and the arrogant Nassau, he is a born tyrant, like his father—woe to us if he triumph——”

“Hush, my father!” the Grand Pensionary interrupted, “we cannot judge him by another’s sins.”

“We can judge him by the blood that is in him.”

“He hath been elected to lead our armies, as his fellow-servant of the State I must support him,” said John de Witt firmly. “Personal feelings must not touch politics, sir.”

Jacob de Witt’s thin hands tightened round his stick.

“Do you think that is the way he looks at it, John? If he snatches the power, will he be magnanimous to you—to any of us? He comes of a race that can hate—of a race that cannot forgive.”

The Grand Pensionary looked at his father with wide and tired eyes.

“I pray you speak words of good omen, sir,” he said softly.

The old man went on as if he did not hear—

“You have never felt the weight of a prince’s anger, you have never been cast into prison by the wrath of a tyrant.… What have we done?” his voice rose almost to a wail, “what have we done?… Nursed a viper to destroy us.…”

“Sir!” cried John de Witt, “I have given the Prince no cause to hate me.”

“No cause?”

The old statesman’s stern eyes rested on his son.

“You have kept him for twenty years out of what he considers his own.… Do you think that William of Orange does not hold that cause enough to hate you?”

The Grand Pensionary put his hand to his heart in a half agitated manner.

“That the Prince misliked my office I have been brought to see—that he hates me I cannot believe—” he paused, then added,—“he owes me some gratitude.”

“He will hate you the more for that,” replied Jacob de Witt. “Gratitude!—Prince Maurice was grateful to John Van Olden Barnenveldt, was he not?”

“I think the Prince is noble at heart,” said the Grand Pensionary firmly. “I did not educate him to be like Prince Maurice nor like his father——”

But Jacob de Witt interrupted sternly—

“He should have been treated as the Lord Cromwell treated the faithless Stewart if the United Provinces were to keep their liberty.”

“Certainly, I think you wrong him.”

“It is you, John, who give him virtues never yet found in the hearts of princes,” returned the old republican grimly.

The Grand Pensionary glanced through the window at that peaceful picture of his daughters under the trees.

“What do you seek to persuade me to, sir?” he asked gently.

“I seek to prevent you making further submission to the Prince of Orange.”

“Sir, I have never submitted to him, nor departed from the Perpetual Edict … you know how I fought against his appointment … but once the States have elected him I must help, not hinder, him in his duties.”

Jacob de Witt shook his head.

“Of a brood of tyrants,” he said in a low voice, “tyrants.…”

John de Witt raised his noble, mournful face—

“Until he proves himself otherwise I must treat the Prince as an honourable man—a patriot.”

“May God reward you for it—for William of Orange never will.”

“Nevertheless, sir, it is necessary that I see the Prince.”

“Why?” demanded the old man vigorously. “M. de Montbas made the mistake of waiting on him—and received a haughty rebuff for his pains. The Staff of the Army is arranged—and there you have been too just, M. Beverningh, the head of the Representatives of the States General, is on the Prince’s side——”

He was interrupted by the entry of M. Van Ouvenaller.

“His Highness the Prince of Orange, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary turned and Jacob de Witt rose.

Before either could speak the Prince appeared in the doorway, and M. de Witt’s secretary, after holding it respectfully open for him, bowed and withdrew.

“I am glad to see Your Highness,” said the Grand Pensionary sincerely.

William touched his hat without raising it and looked at Jacob de Witt.

“Good day, Mynheer.”

The salutation might have been for both or neither, so indifferently was it given; when next he spoke it was directly to the older man.

“We have not met for some time, M. de Witt.”

The old republican came a step nearer the Prince.

Loevenstein was in the minds of both, and that struggle of twenty years ago when the family of de Witt had risen to greatness on the fall of the House of Orange.

Their eyes met.

William very slightly smiled. He was dressed more richly than was his former wont; he wore a circular mantle of dull pink velvet turned up over one shoulder showing the red lining, the cloth-of-gold coat beneath was cut away over a black velvet waistcoat, the heavily fringed baldric supporting the gilt-handled sword he now always wore. His dress was an indication of his altered position; to M. Jacob de Witt his whole bearing was an offence.

“I am leaving the Hague to-morrow,” said the Prince, with a courteous but unmistakable malice. “Shall I not have your good wishes first?”

The old man drew himself erect and firmly clasped his stick.

“I pray daily for the success and safety of the Republic,” he answered sternly.

“But not for me, Mynheer?” asked William quietly.

“I pray that Your Highness may be a worthy servant of the country that owes everything to my son.”

With a gesture of unspeakable pride he pointed to John de Witt.

“Ingratitude is the vice of princes,” he said strongly. “May God preserve Your Highness from that fault.”

He moved to the door, turning his back on the Prince with the air of one who has administered a just rebuke.

John de Witt thought that the Prince would answer, and answer in words that neither could forgive.

But William was silent; he merely raised his brows a little and waited for the elder de Witt to leave.

The Grand Pensionary, proud and collected as ever, remained where the Prince’s entrance found him, his back to the window, his eyes on His Highness.

The moment that the door closed William spoke.

“You must forgive me for disturbing you, Mynheer.”

“I intended waiting on Your Highness myself immediately,” replied the Grand Pensionary formally.

“Their High Mightinesses consider that I should leave the Hague to-morrow,” answered William in the same tone, “since the King of France hath joined his camp at Charleroi.”

John de Witt advanced a little across the room.

“Will you be seated, Highness?”

The Prince took the chair Jacob de Witt had quitted.

He still wore his hat; it heavily shaded his face, that was, even for him, pale. He coughed continually as he spoke, and his eyes were unnaturally brilliant and languid lidded.

“We have not seen each other since your appointment,” said John de Witt, “and I am glad to have this opportunity of speaking to Your Highness.”

William laid his fringed gloves, his riding-whip, and a red rose he was carrying down on the table beside him.

He came, characteristically, straight to the point.

“You opposed my election, Mynheer; you have contrived to restrict my authority … the War Council of the States General are to accompany me and be consulted on every step I take.”

“It is true, Highness,” was the grave response.

“Very well, Mynheer, what I have obtained has been in spite of you.… I asked your help and you refused it.… But now?—I am the chief of the Army, you of the State … what now?”

He fixed his dark eyes on M. de Witt’s face.

“Now, Highness, I will support you by every means in my power,” answered John de Witt firmly. “Do you think,” he added, with a mournful smile, “that I am of so paltry or jealous a nature as to indulge my private feelings at the expense of the public welfare and safety?”

“No, I did not think so, M. de Witt,” answered William.

“I have never borne personal ill-will to you, Prince. I of myself would never have given you the appointment you now hold, but since you do hold it, by the wish of the country, I will help you, willingly and very loyally.”

“Thank you, Mynheer,” said William, still formally.

“Put me to the test,” urged the Grand Pensionary. “If there is anything in my power——”

“Yes,” interrupted the Prince, “I have come a second time to ask you to help me.”

He drew a paper from his pocket and spread it out on the table.

“This is the list of the Staff of the Army—there has been a prolonged contest over the choice, Mynheer.”

He smiled, not very pleasantly, and then coughed, pressing his lace handkerchief to his lips.

John de Witt crossed the room to stand beside his chair.

William read from his list—

“The two Major-Generals, Prince John Maurice of Nassau and Paul Wurtz—I have nothing to say against them.”

One was his own relative, the other devoted to his cause. He might well pass these names.

“Commander of the Cavalry, the Rhyngrave, Frederick Magnus, Count Salm, Governor of Maestricht.”

He also was devoted to the Prince. William made no comment.

“The Rhyngrave’s two lieutenant-generals, John of Weldeven and the Count of Nassau Saarbruck.”

Both these men had always been attached to the House of Orange.

William continued—

“Commander of the Infantry, Frederick of Nassau, Lord of Zuylestein; his lieutenant-generals, Count Königsmarck and William of Aylva; master general of ordinance, Count Hornes; quartermaster general, Moyse Pain et Vin; ‘sergeant majors’ of infantry, Colonel Kirkpatrick and Count Styrum.”

Of these two last the first was a Scotch Calvinist bearing a bitter hatred to the English Government, the second a near relation of the Prince through his grandmother.

“Your Highness has nothing to say against these gentlemen?” asked the Grand Pensionary, with a gentle sarcasm.

William raised his eyes from the paper.

“There are the two commissary generals of the cavalry whom I have not yet named, Mynheer.”

John de Witt’s eyes narrowed.

“Your Highness means the Viscount de Montbas and Colonel Bampfield?”

“Yes.”

“What of them, Highness?”

William coughed.

“Those two positions are positions of great trust, Mynheer.”

“I know it, Highness.”

“I should suggest that they be filled differently.”

John de Witt flushed.

“Why?”

“They are neither of them men whom I should choose to have under me.”

“Your Highness must explain yourself.”

“Briefly, I do not trust them.”

“They were both nominated by me, Highness.”

“I know, Mynheer.”

John de Witt drew back a little from the table, and stood looking down at the Prince with an almost incredulous expression.

He would not have believed that William would have the audacity to take exception to the only two officers of republican sympathies on his Staff.

“They are also my friends, Highness,” he continued with some haughtiness.

“I know that, Mynheer,” said the Prince; “but you are not, I think, of such a paltry nature as to indulge private feelings at the expense of the welfare of the State.”

The tone in which William repeated these words he had used brought the colour into M. de Witt’s face.

“Both these soldiers, Highness, are men whom the country should be proud of—they have my entire trust and confidence.”

“I am sorry,” answered the Prince dryly.

“What have you against them, Highness?”

The new Chief of the Army kept down his glance. “Colonel Bampfield is a good soldier—but——”

“He hath the misfortune to be my friend,” broke in John de Witt with some feeling.

“He is a Swede, Mynheer—a mere soldier of fortune. I do not consider him fitted for a post of importance.”

“And M. de Montbas?—you always disliked him!”

“Yes, I never liked him, Mynheer—and I do not trust him.”

“Not trust him?”

“No.”

“This is intolerable!… Your Highness, in what way do you not trust him?”

“He is a Frenchman.”

“But a Protestant—and since many years in our service.”

“Still, Mynheer, a subject of the King of France,” answered William. “I do not trust, I repeat, the Vicomte de Montbas—and since I am not empowered to choose my own officers, I have come to you to procure his dismissal, Mynheer de Witt.”

With that the Captain General looked steadily at the Grand Pensionary, who was both angered and taken aback.

The Prince’s request seemed to him both bold and insolent, though it was proffered with an almost disdainful quiet.

He curbed the anger that rose to his lips, and kept his glance averted from William’s cool and slightly mocking face.

“M. de Montbas is my friend,” he said sternly, “and in the confidence of Their High Mightinesses.… I will listen to nothing against him—no, nothing,” he repeated in some agitation.

Somewhat to his surprise the Prince replied at once—

“Very well—it is not my affair—I have made my request and been refused.” He lifted his brows. “Well, you will take the responsibility—as you do for every other action of the civil Government.”

Now M. de Witt looked at him.

“Yes, I will take the responsibility, Your Highness,” he answered proudly. “M. de Montbas is as trusty, worthy a gentleman as any under Your Highness’ command——”

“I am glad that you will answer for him, Mynheer.”

“We will talk no more of it,” replied the Grand Pensionary; “he stays.”

William picked up the red rose and looked at it languidly.

“My brother,” continued M. de Witt, “will not accompany Your Highness, as he hath answered the appeal of the States General to go as deputy plenipotentiary to the Fleet.”

The Prince still kept his eyes on the flower.

“I am glad, Mynheer,” he answered. “M. Cornelius de Witt and I are not likely to agree.”

The Grand Pensionary gave him a long and searching glance.

“God forgive this stubborn spirit in Your Highness,” he said.

William faintly smiled.

“Mynheer, let each keep to his business.… You need not have grudged me the sole command of the Army nor have appointed these Deputies to accompany me.”

“It is for your own good—the undivided weight of authority was too heavy a burden for Your Highness.”

“These lawyers know nothing of war,” answered William disdainfully.

“Some might say as much of Your Highness—I for one who think you should have served before you ruled.”

“I know that, Mynheer;” the Prince laid down the rose. “You have no trust in me; well, time will disclose whether or no I justify myself in this that I undertake.”

“I shall do all I can to aid Your Highness.” The generous heart of de Witt went out, despite everything, to this young man of no experience and of delicate health suddenly placed in this arduous and difficult post.

He blamed the ambition that had asked and the enthusiasm that had given the supreme command to William of Orange, and he feared the result for the United Provinces; but he saw, as perhaps no one else could see, the thousand difficulties and labours that must beset a general of twenty-one called to repel a foreign invasion with insufficient men and limited authority; the almost impossible task that faced a youth who had never seen a battle and now must come to the touch with an army of prodigious strength, already elated with glory, strong in prestige, and generaled by the most famous soldiers in the world.

On this impulse of reflection de Witt began to speak. He told the Prince what was being now done for the Navy, the Army; the fresh levies he was raising, the soldiers he hoped to add to the standing force.… He said what he could to encourage and hearten.

William listened, turning the rose about on the table beside him; once or twice he coughed and put his hand to his head.

When John de Witt paused he looked up slowly.

“This should have been seen to long ago,” he said in a low voice.

“What do you mean?” asked the Grand Pensionary quickly.

William rose.

“This country is utterly unprepared for war.… The Navy is half disarmed, the Army of a miserable strength … the forts insufficiently garrisoned.… Those who have been governing the country for the last twenty years are those who must answer for it, Mynheer.”

“You are blaming me?”

William caught up his gloves and the great red flower.

“I am the servant of the Republic—the Commander of the Army—nothing more—I cannot say what has been done amiss nor what rightly—doubtless you can answer for your conduct, Mynheer de Witt.”

The Grand Pensionary had no weapon against an indirect attack, veiled in courtesy.

“If Your Highness will let me know your requirements I will see that Their High Mightinesses meet them,” he answered simply.

The Prince flung back the pink velvet cloak and replaced the list of his officers in his pocket.

The fading, reddish sunlight gathered in the gold hilt of his sword, ran down the length of the shining scabbard, and shone in the curls that lay on his shoulders.

“You must believe me always your friend,” he said, lifting his brilliant eyes.

“And you always that I pray for your success—and that I will in every way assist you—Highness,” responded M. de Witt sincerely.

“I shall remember,” answered William, “and hereafter, without doubt, be glad to remind you of it.”

John de Witt, encouraged by the quiet friendliness of the other’s tone, continued with impulsive warmth—

“I shall work in the Cabinet as you in the field. Let no differences estrange us, for have we not the same object in view—the same hope to animate us, the same fear to spur us on? God, who has us both in His hand, keep you, Prince—and help you.”

“Amen,” said William. “And may He guide your councils, M. de Witt.”

The Grand Pensionary held out his fine right hand.

William clasped it; his eyes perhaps were defiant, but that was not perceived by M. de Witt.

“I will write to Your Highness every day however pressing my business——”

“You shall hear from the camp, Mynheer.”

They parted.

John de Witt sat down by his desk, one hand supporting his head the other hanging slackly by his side.

The Prince had not been gone three minutes before Agneta de Witt entered, rather breathlessly.

“Father!—who was that who has just left you?”

De Witt looked up, surprised.

“Dearest, the Prince—what is the matter?”

“Oh—nought—but I passed—him—in the hall, and he gave me a wicked look—as if he hated me—and all of us.…”

CHAPTER VI
THE CONSPIRATORS

The Prince and Mr. Bromley rode straight from M. de Witt’s house to the Groote Kerk.

William pulled his hat over his eyes; his person was not as yet well known at the Hague, and though his beautiful horse attracted notice he avoided the recognition of the well-dressed crowds that thronged the streets.

Leaving Mr. Bromley without, he entered the church by the little back door that stood always open.

Bareheaded he opened the railing round the entrance and passed slowly into the body of the church.

Some of the high-set windows were shaded by green curtains; through others the sun streamed in clear, golden, slanting lines across the whitewashed walls. In the open space where the altar once stood a shaft of light dazzled and fell in a little square of brilliance on the stone pavement.

There were no splendid monuments; here and there a plain tablet grimly decorated with a skull or a cluster of bones, yellowing in the marble.

In every place along the stiff, high-backed pews were green hassocks, a Prayer-book, and a Bible primly arranged; round the stern pulpit the seats of the elders with their larger Bibles and the green markers hanging from between the heavy covers.

Opposite the pulpit was the plain pew belonging to the Princes of Orange. Here the late Stadtholder had worshipped, and here William, every Sunday since he could remember, had sat for three hours in the morning and two hours in the afternoon, full in the eye of the preacher, with his open Bible in front of him and before him the whitewashed walls and pillars, the straight green curtains, and the figure of the pastor in his black gown and bands, preaching the doctrines of John Calvin.

He could not recall having ever missed a service here while he was at the Hague. Sometimes his head had ached so that he could hardly hold it up, but he had always sat erect, with his eyes on the preacher, even when he was a child and could not understand the long words used.

Since the declaration of war the States had ordained Wednesday for fasting and prayer, and the Prince had invariably attended but—with his household.

Now, the day before his departure to the Army, he came, for the first time, to the church alone. He mounted into his pew and knelt in his place; his sword making an incongruous rattle on the wooden seat.

He folded his hands on the front of the pew where the Bible rested, hid his face in them, and knelt so, motionless.

The extraordinary silence of a place still in the midst of noise filled the church: the faint echo of the clamour of the busy city without seemed to come from a long way off; the sunshine fell on the blank walls with a dreary sense of remoteness; clamour and sunshine alike could only enter here by a guilty stealth, they seemed to belong to other regions.

When the clock struck it sounded loud and sombre, like a note of warning or reproof, and echoed gloomily down the empty aisles and bare altar chapel.

When at last the Prince rose he remained in his place, gazing down the grim whiteness of the church, his right hand resting on the Bible.

He was very pale, and there was a look of pain about his eyes.

For a while he stood so, the pink mantle rising and falling with his laboured breathing; then he turned sharply.

Some one had entered the church.

At first he could hear only footsteps, but presently three men came round the pillars.

The Prince picked up his gloves, his hat, and the rose, and descended from the pew, closing it after him.

As he stepped into the aisle he came face to face with the newcomers.

The recognition was instantaneous; he knew them for the three who had stepped out upon him from the mist at Scheveningen. They fell back respectfully, in silence.

William, not pleased at the meeting, passed on, but when he reached the covered entrance he found that they had followed him with the obvious intent of speaking.

The Prince at once turned, and, putting on his hat, faced them.

The foremost was a very young man, fair and eager, fashionably dressed; the other two older, and, it seemed, of a meaner station.

“You know me?” asked William.

“Your Highness, we do.”

“Well?” demanded the Prince.

He knew these men for conspirators against the Government and that the youth who spoke was Jacob van der Graef, the author of Advice to every Faithful Hollander, the pamphlet said to have stung John de Witt the most among the many violent attacks made on him.

He knew also that they were Orangists whose enthusiasm was as genuine as it was unbalanced and foolishly directed.

Knowing and recalling this he deigned to stop and listen.

“Highness,” said Jacob van der Graef, adoration in his face, “we are loyal subjects of yours——”

“Ah,” William caught him up. “You, the son of a magistrate, Mynheer van der Graef—venture to say that!”

“We would venture more,” returned one of the others, Van Bruyn, a lawyer.

“Take care, my friends,” said the Prince; but the expression of his eyes rewarded them.

“Prince,” said Van der Graef in a low, excited voice, “we would die for you—any one of us, and there are others—M. de Witt treats you vilely, he is a traitor to his country … while he lives Your Highness will never come to your rights. The United Provinces will not much longer bear his yoke.”

“Speak a little more moderately, my child—or you will get into trouble,” said the Prince, slightly smiling.

The young student sank to one knee on the flagstones.

“What can I do to serve Your Highness?” he asked passionately.

“Be prudent—for your own sake,” returned William. “M. de Witt is still master.”

The other two broke in—

“He is a traitor!”

“Nay,” said the Prince; “he is a good man.”

“A traitor to your House, Highness, and to the country.”

“I do not say so,” answered William. “But it seems he is not popular.”

“The people hate him.…”

“I wonder why?” The Prince’s smile deepened.

“Because they love Your Highness!”

“I love the United Provinces, Mynheer——”

Jacob van der Graef rose.

“M. de Witt must go!” he cried.

“Go?”

“Cæsar’s way—I would play Brutus for Your Highness’ sake.”

William coloured and drew a deep breath.

“It is dangerous to be a fool in these times, Mynheer.… M. de Witt is not Cæsar.”

He turned away quickly, opened the door, and stepped out into the sunny streets.

“Who were those went in but now?” asked Mr. Bromley curiously as his master mounted.

“Some of those who stir the country against M. de Witt.”

“They followed you into the church?”

“I think so.”

“Why, Highness?”

“To speak to me.”

“Ah, they wished a little encouragement,” nodded Mr. Bromley.

“They are fanatics,” returned the Prince. “They call M. de Witt any vile name that occurs to them—and believe what they say.”

“Can they be of any use to Your Highness?” asked Mr. Bromley.

The Prince let the spur touch his horse’s side.

“Use to me?” He looked at his gentleman sideways. “What use should they be to me?… Were I M. de Witt I would police the Hague better.”

“You think these malcontents are dangerous, Highness?”

“To the Government, yes.… There is no one so hated as a usurper, Bromley, when the people who gave him his power become tired of him.”

“Does Your Highness think M. de Witt is hated in that fashion?”

“You must see that he is not loved,” answered the Prince.

“It is curious, too,” remarked the Englishman.

“It is,” said William; “for, as I reminded M. Van der Graef but now, M. de Witt is a good man.”

Mr. Bromley glanced quickly at his master. He was not a man of quick perceptions, but the Prince’s mocking intonation could not altogether escape him.

“Remind me,” continued William, “that when next I write to M. de Witt I mention that he had better take precautions——”

“Against what, Highness?”

“Assassination,” said the Prince laconically; then, before Mr. Bromley could exclaim, he asked abruptly, “You have not heard from Arnheim—from M. Triglandt?”

“No, Highness.”

“I should have liked to have seen him before I left the Hague,” remarked the Prince, with such an effect of calmness that Mr. Bromley could not tell if any feeling was behind the words or no.

They had almost reached the Palace, and were riding briskly under the lime trees that bordered the canal, when a band of young men, advancing from a side street, crossed their path and brought them to a sudden halt. A crowd accompanied the band, the foremost of whom was carrying an orange flag, a white one displayed below it; this bore the inscription: “Orange op, Witte onder.”

William was annoyed. He never loved the mob in any form or mood; he was utterly indifferent to popularity, which he rated too keenly at its true value.

He felt no gratitude to these people for their enthusiasm. They had suffered John de Witt for twenty years; despite their flag-waving and their shouting they suffered him still; therefore he sat silent, reining in his horse on the causeway of the canal and waiting for the crowd to pass.

But the beauty of the animal and the richness of the rider’s dress did not escape the attention of the Orangists.

They looked at him.

He was of too marked an appearance to escape recognition long.

Some knew him at once.

They stopped, hesitated, swayed together.…

“The Prince!” the word went round.

Then every hat and cap was off.

“Long live Your Highness!… God keep Your Highness!”

William touched his beaver.

“Thank you, my friends,” he said gravely.

They crowded round him, men, women and boys.…

Mr. Bromley felt a startled amazement to see the half sobbing, deep intensity of their enthusiasm; as if love of home, of country, and God were each and all expressed in their passionate devotion to this young man.

Like all reserved people, they did not lack expression when they were touched or roused.

William accepted their homage calmly; his attention seemed to be given to his horse that, fretted by the pressure, curveted and backed, bringing out his rider’s horsemanship.

“And does Your Highness go to the war to-morrow?” asked one, eagerly.

“Ay, to-morrow,” answered William, looking down at them.

At that they shouted anew, and roundly cursed the French.

Hearing that, the Prince slightly smiled.

“We will not see King Louis at Mass in the Groote Kerk—eh?” he said.

“Not while Your Highness lives!” shouted the young man with the flag.

William’s brilliant glance rested on him.

“Thank you.” He glanced round the eager faces. “Thank you all for your confidence.…”

They began to call frenzied curses on the MM. de Witt.

William checked them.

“Get back to your homes,” he said, “and pray God to bless the cause I have in hand—to protect—the liberty of this country and the Protestant religion.…”

An old man came forward and kissed the Prince’s stirrup … a girl was sobbing out loud; Mr. Bromley saw William go very pale.

He touched his hat again and pressed on. They fell back as the great horse moved; but they followed him to the Palace gate, blessing him.

A smile not wholly pleasant curled the Prince’s lip. These people who had forsaken his House to obey a burgher citizen cursed their idealist lawyer, the man of peace, at the first touch of danger, and turned frantically to the son of their ancient rulers—the man of action; little real trust had they in maxims and the strength of quiet godliness; when it came to real issues they cried for the sword and the leader.

What did John de Witt’s twenty years of service avail him now?… They called him a traitor, they wanted a Prince and a soldier—even at the price of losing their liberty.

William of Orange would not be content with what John de Witt had taken—a modest salary and the rank of a humble citizen; sovereign power was his price. He might save his country, but he would rule it—as his ancestors had done, and with augmented powers—not the servant of the Republic, like John de Witt, but her master.

And they were very willing to put their liberty beneath his feet.

His face wore its least pleasant expression as he entered his Palace thinking of these things.

Mr. Bromley was silent, as always when his master seemed in one of his coldly cynical moods. The Prince was usually in a sardonic humour after he had been openly acclaimed by the crowd; it pointed, perhaps, the difference between his actual position and the one he should have filled.

M. Bentinck was abroad, taking farewell of friends; he was to accompany the Prince to the front.

William dined alone.

Afterwards he wrote a brief but kind letter to the Princess Dowager, and one to Cornelius Triglandt at Arnheim.

He gave these for dispatch to Mr. Bromley, who was wandering about the dreary Palace between excitement and depression.

It was now about half-past eight.

William dismissed him.

“We leave at six to-morrow morning——”

“So early, Highness?”

“I wish to avoid the crowds—I shall not want you before then, Bromley.”

Thus left to his own resources, Mr. Bromley bethought him of some French players now performing at the Hague.

Since the declaration of war they had taken fright at the temper of the people and announced their early departure; but to-night they were giving Tartuffe, and Mr. Bromley had long wanted to see them. He persuaded M. Heenvliet to accompany him; it was their last chance they agreed, with a laugh—who could tell if either of them would see the Hague again?

The Prince went upstairs to his silent rooms, opened the windows on the still spring night and drew the curtains.

Two candles on the mantelshelf and two on the desk lit the room; between the last stood the red rose in a crystal glass.

William sat down at the desk and unlocked the drawers.

He employed no secretary, his letters were always in his own hand; no confidant was tolerated in his intimate affairs.

Drawing the candle nearer to him, with a little half-slow movement, he commenced writing the letters that he hoped and intended should secure allies for the Republic.

The first was to the Emperor. He wrote it slowly, translating it into Spanish from the rough draft he had before him. The second, in German, which he wrote with ease, was to the Elector of Brandenburg; in it he set forth the need of the United Provinces, and passionately implored help in the name of their common religion.

These finished, he set himself to write both to Charles of England, with the object of detaching him from the French Alliance, and to Sir William Temple.

These letters, that he composed carefully in English, occupied him a considerable time.

When he at length sealed them it was past midnight.

He gave a half glance at the clock, coughed, and leant back wearily in his chair.

It was absolutely silent; a slight but sweet breeze filled the room; the chimes of the Groote Kerk rang clearly with an iron clang into the night, breaking the stillness harshly. William snuffed the candles and began to sort his papers.

They were already carefully arranged and marked.

Some he burnt in the candle, some he put in his pocket; the rest he locked away.

From an inner drawer he took a roll of maps and a bundle of notes and spread them out before him on the polished surface of the desk.

They were plans of the Yssel and Rhine, and diagrams of the forts protecting these rivers. Referring to the notes, he wrote under each fort the number of men, of guns, and the nature of the defences. In some cases he made calculations and drawings of scarps and counterscarps, half moons and bastions.

He dwelt a long time over Maestricht, the key of the entrance to the Netherlands, and wrote across the plan that the garrison must be strengthened.

The Rhyngrave, Frederick Magnus, commanded there. The Prince, seeing the weakness of his men, wrote to him and desired him to raise levies from among the surrounding peasantry.

“—as I can send you no more soldiers and the loss of Maestricht would be almost a fatal disaster.”

Then he looked again at the list he had shown M. de Witt, and wrote his comments beside the name of each officer.

When he came to that of the Viscount de Montbas he hesitated as if he would have liked to cross it out, but finally left it—opposite a blank.

Next he examined the names of the Deputies appointed by the Government to accompany him in the campaign.

He was not even to move the army without the consent of this Council of War, and as he glanced down their names his eyes darkened at the thought of this restriction put upon him by M. de Witt.

Cornelius de Witt and Beverningh for Holland; Ripperda de Buryse for Guelders; Crommon for Zeeland; Schude for Utrecht; Couvorden of Stouvelar for Overyssel; Ysbrandt for Friesland; and Gokkinga for Groningen.

Cornelius de Witt having been transferred to the Fleet Beverningh was left head of the Council, and the Prince could twist Beverningh, once a loyal supporter of the Grand Pensionary, round his finger. Nevertheless he did not forgive M. de Witt this attempt to limit his authority and supervise his actions.

His bitterness against him was further revived when he came to look over the muster-roll of the forces with which he was to repel invasion.

Less than a year ago John de Witt, in pursuance of his peace policy, had disbanded a considerable portion of the Army. Regarding politics as a science, he had overlooked the importance of war; he could not believe the policy of Louvois would find expression in the armies of Louis.

Subsequently he had done what he could to repair the error; but it was not one to be easily made good, nor one to be lightly forgiven by the young man who sat now looking at the list of his inadequate forces.

Thirty-four thousand five hundred and fifty-five foot, two thousand and six hundred horse—many ill trained, several regiments not paid—constituted the standing Army of the Republic.

The Grand Pensionary’s urgent appeal to the States General had resulted in the promise of seventeen thousand men—not yet raised.

William laid the paper down and put his hand to his aching forehead.

Thirty-seven thousand men! … and Louis had left Paris with a hundred thousand, not to speak of the army already in Lorraine; a hundred thousand men, and Condé, Turenne, Vauban, and Luxembourg.…

“Ah, M. de Witt, this is what your love for peace hath brought us to,” muttered William between his teeth.

He turned his keen eyes to the list of the other forces at the disposal of the United Provinces.

The Fleet, under the command of de Ruyter, comprised a hundred ships, thirty fire-ships, twenty thousand sailors, and five thousand marines; with this force de Ruyter, who had already escorted the India convoy safely into the Texel, had to confront the combined ships of England and France.

William pushed back his chair and fixed his eyes on the dark square of window. His mind was busy with a question that was no part of the business of the Captain General: the financial position of the country.

The expenses of a campaign could not be less than 13,700,000 gulden for four months. The States had voted 3,000,000, and 1,500,000 for the Fleet. The National Debt was seventeen millions; the country was already taxed to the utmost.…

On the back of the list of Deputies William made a quick calculation of his own private fortune; an estimate of his jewels, estates, and property.

His serenely quiet life had enabled him to accumulate his revenues; his credit was good; he could raise large sums in Amsterdam on his mere note of hand, and he knew some German bankers who would, he thought, advance him money.…

He rose at last, pushing back his disordered hair.

It was nearly half-past four.

M. Bentinck must have returned; the Prince rather wondered that he had not come to him.

There still remained some work to do, copying and docketing, and the Prince, weary and racked with a headache, wished M. Bentinck here to help.

Taking up a candle he went out on to the head of the stairs and listened intently.

He seemed the only person awake in the Palace; not a sound, a footfall, or a breath disturbed the quiet.

The Prince, remembering a book he wished to take with him to-morrow, went lightly down to the library; resigned to the fact that he must return and finish his work himself.

Under the library door a faint light showed.

The Prince thought at once of M. Bentinck, and opened the heavy door.

A couple of candles burning on the table between the windows revealed a man sitting before them, busily writing.

At the sound of the opening door he looked quickly up.

“Your Highness!” he exclaimed, and rose hastily.

“Ah, M. Van Mander,” said William, slightly surprised. “Where is M. Bentinck?”

“Gone to bed, Your Highness.”

“And the others?”

“I think every one is abed, Your Highness.”

The Prince smiled.

“Save you and I.” He came farther into the room. “Why do you sit up, Mynheer Van Mander?”

Florent coloured.

“I—could not sleep to-night.”

William looked at him sharply.

“What are you doing?”

“Copying some letters M. Bentinck gave me, Highness.”

“Well, finish them.”

The Prince crossed to the far end of the room, held his light up to the bookshelves and took down the volume—a Latin work on tactics—that he sought.

“I have finished, Highness,” said Florent in a humble voice. He fixed his eyes ardently and half pleadingly on the Prince.

William turned, with the book in his hand, and looked at him.

Florent had an instant and haunting picture of the Prince: his cloth-of-gold suit and black jet embroidered waistcoat glimmered into points of light in the glow of the candle he held; a little diamond brooch in the lace at his throat sent out long changing rays of blue and green; he looked colourless and ill; his eyes were heavy lidded and shadowed underneath, the curls on his forehead disordered and damp; he breathed with noticeable labour, as if utterly exhausted.

“Is Your Highness not taking any repose to-night?” asked Florent timidly.

William turned towards the door.

“‘Annibal erit brevi ad portas,’” he said, with a slight smile.

Florent stood mute.

“If you will you can help me,” added the Prince. “I have still somewhat to do—will you come upstairs?”

Van Mander blushed violently. He did not say anything, but William’s keen glance seemed satisfied with his expression and demeanour.

“I do not wish to wake M. Bentinck,” continued the Prince; “we have still an hour,” he pulled out his watch.

Florent extinguished his candles and took that the Prince held, preceding him with it up the wide, dark stairs.

When they reached William’s apartment the Prince gave Florent some of the notes he had been writing and bade him copy them.

He himself walked up and down; stopping now and then to look out of the window on to the night, where the darkness lifted slowly.

Florent hardly raised his eyes from the desk; the scratching of his quill and the Prince’s light step were the only sounds.

At last William threw himself into the deep chair by the hearth, and sat there so still that Florent thought him asleep. But looking up from his finished task he saw that the Prince’s eyes were open and shining with a bright lustre. As Florent gazed at him he moved, and glanced at the black clock between the candles on the mantelpiece.

It was well past five, and the steadily increasing glow of dawn in the chamber made the candle-flames show yellow and feeble.

The Prince rose and came over to Florent’s seat.

“Have you completed that?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Will you put up these papers?” he pointed to them. “That letter to the King of England is for M. Gabriel Sylvius—who will come for it presently.… Will you remain here till I return?”

Without waiting for an answer he went into his bedchamber and closed the door.

Florent arranged the papers as he was told; then put out the unnecessary candles and got to his feet, stretching himself.

The freshness of the early wind was marvellous.

The secretary went to the wide open window. Before him were the trees in their ideal freshness and the green walks of the Palace garden; beyond the turrets and towers of the Hague.

The birds were beginning their lusty, untaught harmony and a rose-coloured veil was being lifted from the heavens, disclosing the blue of a fair spring day.

Florent rested his head against the mullions and drew a troubled breath.

War … the beginning of War … what was it like?… War.

At Charleroi lay a great army, coming nearer—from Chatham and from Brest huge armaments advanced … nearer.… A curious fact to dwell on, here, looking over the peaceful Hague.

Well, he, Florent Van Mander, was no patriot … yet it was strange to think of this country of his, not long ago the Arbitrator of Europe, the greatest maritime power in the world, the richest, most prosperous in commerce, fallen to a footstool for the French.

Even a hero could not prevent it, he thought, and the Republic owned no hero; only John de Witt, who was a good man, and William of Orange, who was playing his own game.…

This very night he had written a letter to his uncle Charles … perhaps it was a guarantee that Louis’ troops should not find their conquest difficult … in consideration of … a price.

Florent smiled bitterly.

Yet he told himself that only a fool would act otherwise.… Since the country was lost one must snatch what might be from the wreck. Yet … yet … however … the Prince did it very well.…

“Annibal erit brevi ad portas” he had said, and as if the danger touched him nearly.

Florent turned restlessly from the window as William re-entered from the inner chamber.

Under his pink mantle he wore black armour, and he held under his arm his helmet, mounted with a black feather.

His sword was strapped to his waist, and he supported it with his right hand.

His bright hair and his pale face were in curious contrast with the dull, shining mail. He placed his steel gauntlets and his helmet down on a chair and crossed to the desk, taking up the papers Florent had left there ready for him.

“Go and see if M. Bentinck is abroad,” he commanded, and he unfolded the plan of the line of the Yssel and gazed at it.

Florent left the room, to return almost immediately with M. Bentinck, who had slept well all night and was as gay as if he were starting for a hunt in Guelders.

William gave him a charming smile and rolled up the map.

“M. de Zuylestein is below with his regiment of cavalry.” M. Bentinck, who was also in armour, bent and kissed his master’s hand. “I think you will already find the streets full of people——”

“They had best keep their cheers for our return,” answered William briefly.

Florent was observing him closely. He wished that he might have accompanied M. Bentinck to the war; the empty Palace was no alluring prospect.…

The Prince wonderfully softened his discontent by entrusting him with the letters lying on the little desk, and giving him his instructions for M. Gabriel Sylvius, who had not yet arrived.

Then he said “Good-bye,” nodded, and went downstairs.

In the hall he took unconcerned leave of the rest of his household, M. Heenvliet, M. Renswoude, M. Boreel, handing to the last the keys of his desk.

By now the sun was bright and strong, lying in scattered patches of gold on the grass beneath the Palace trees.

The Prince gave his helmet to an officer and put on his hat.

Mr. Bromley came to say his horse was waiting. William was leaving the Palace when he stopped at a sudden recollection and mounted the stairs.

When, a moment later, he returned he wore a red rose fastened into the brooch of his cravat.

“Are you ready, Highness?” asked M. Bentinck.

The Prince stepped out into the sunlight, he coughed, and closed his eyes for a second as if shaken with pain.

The clock of the Groote Kerk struck six.

Florent Van Mander watched the little cavalcade ride away.

CHAPTER VII
THE POLICY OF M. DE WITT

Mynheer Gaspard Fagel was roused by persistent knocking on his door.

He sat up in his bed and cursed roundly. He was working almost to the limit of his strength and contenting himself with about four hours’ rest, and his one feeling was rage at being disturbed. He pulled back the curtains and shouted angrily—

“Come in—in God’s name!”

His servant entered, in hastily snatched-up garments.

“What is the matter?” demanded Gaspard Fagel sharply, his vexation giving place to alarm.

“Mynheer, the Grand Pensionary is below,” cried the servant. “Oh, Mynheer, is it the French, and shall we all be murdered in our beds?”

“Be quiet, you fool!” M. Fagel sprang on to the floor. “Get me my dressing-gown.… M. de Witt below?” By the aid of the light that the man held he glanced at his watch on the table by his bed; it was four o’clock.

“Yes, Mynheer—he must see you at once he says.”

“Is he agitated?” asked the Secretary of the United Provinces, snatching up his slippers.

“He is the same as ever, Mynheer—but something dreadful must have happened to bring him here at this hour.”

Gaspard Fagel was of the same opinion, nothing but an affair of great moment could have brought M. de Witt to see him—and at this hour.

“It is the French,” repeated the servant, who seemed utterly confounded.

“Put that candle down or you will set the house on fire with your trembling,” said M. Fagel, struggling into his clothes. “And don’t talk so much of the French—the Prince of Orange is between us and them.”

“M. de Witt must have heard from His Highness, Mynheer.”

“Hold your tongue——”

M. Fagel snatched up the candle.

“And get back to your bed,” he said angrily, “and see to it you rouse no one else.”

With that he left the room, and, half dressed, clad in a blue, flowered dressing-gown, descended to the parlour where M. de Witt awaited him.

A candle, hastily lit, stood on the table; it but feebly illumined the small, handsomely appointed room.

Standing by the mantelshelf, wrapped in a black velvet mantle, was the Grand Pensionary.

He held his hat and his gloves in his hand. He was pallid, his lips tightly drawn, his eyes narrowed with an intent expression.

“Good morning,” said M. Fagel, a little flushed and breathless.

“Ah, Mynheer Fagel.”

John de Witt appeared perfectly composed; he spoke quietly.

“Ill news?” asked the Secretary of the United Provinces.

He was something embarrassed by the sudden presence under his roof of the man who was both his adversary and his rival.

“Will you not be seated?” added M. Fagel.

The Grand Pensionary took the chair nearest to him.

“I have come directly here from the Binnenhof,” he said.

M. Fagel lit the other candles on the table and looked at M. de Witt over the flames.

“You have had bad news?” he hazarded, puckering his brows.

“Yes, M. Fagel, I have.”

The Secretary caught at the tassels of the blue dressing-gown.

“From de Ruyter?”

“No—I have heard nothing from him.”

“From the Prince?” M. Fagel’s voice came somewhat hoarsely.

“No—my news is from Maestricht—from the Rhyngrave.”

De Witt raised his head sharply as he spoke and regarded the other man.

Across the wavering lights and shadows their eyes met.

“Well?” demanded M. Fagel.

John de Witt raised his hand to his breast.

“This—the French have crossed the Rhine——”

Gaspard Fagel stepped back.

“Crossed the Rhine?”

“—on the 9th—they are marching on the Yssel … one hundred thousand strong.”

“God!” cried Gaspard Fagel. He sank into the chair beside him, his dressing-gown flowing open over his shirt. “Oh! … my God!”

There was no change in John de Witt’s pale, proud face.

“Their leader is Condé … our outposts were undefended … the French hardly lost a man … every fort guarding the Rhine has fallen.”

M. Fagel put his hand to his brow, it seemed as if he would tear his hair.

“We are defended by cowards, it seems!” he exclaimed. “Has every garrison surrendered?”

“Every one.”

“And Maestricht … Bois le Duc … Nymwegen?”

“They can scarce escape.”

“And Condé?”

“He marches on Utrecht.”

“Utrecht!”

“Wesel hath fallen—and half the Republic is lost with that.”

“And the campaign hath been opened nine days.…”

“In nine more Condé may be at the Hague.”

“But the Prince?”

“He falls back on Utrecht.”

“Without an engagement?”

“He dare not risk one it would seem—he has not written to me.”

“Had he no soldiers on the Rhine?” cried M. Fagel, incredulous.

“M. de Montbas, with two regiments of cavalry——”

“And he?”

“Was cut to pieces or—fled.”

“Ah, you do not know?”

“Not yet.”

“This is a creditable beginning!”

M. de Witt put his hand over his eyes.

“M. de Luxembourg is burning and slaying … like Alva … they are already drunk with victory.”

“What is to be done?”

“What hope have we if Utrecht falls!”

“The Prince will defend it——”

“The Prince is defending the Yssel.”

“We must send more levies.”

“Ah, M. Fagel, have I not strained every nerve already to send more levies?”

“What is to be done?”

“God hath been pleased to put us in bitter straits.”

“What do you propose, Mynheer? What shall we do?”

It was a long time since Gaspard Fagel had deigned to ask the Grand Pensionary’s advice, but in the hour of terror and alarm the weaker nature threw aside pride and recognised the stronger.

M. de Witt uncovered his eyes and raised his head.

“I have come here to you, now, Mynheer, with my suggestion.”

“To me?”

John de Witt gave him a steady, mournful glance.

“You are no longer my friend, I know, M. Fagel.”

“Mynheer——!” protested the Secretary in a fluster of agitation.

“That is understood between us—I come to you as to the chief of the Orange party in the absence of His Highness.”

These two had been friends once, and allies, before Gaspard Fagel had been led by ambition to envy the position of the Grand Pensionary and serve the Prince.

At John de Witt’s calm, sad recognition of their estrangement and its motive the Secretary was silent.

“You represent the party that has always been for war, M. Fagel, as I that for peace—you have, perhaps, more influence in the Assembly than I——”

“M. de Witt——”

The Grand Pensionary silenced him.

“It is true.”

M. Fagel wiped his lips.

“What do you want of me?”

“Your help in the Assembly.”

“For what end?”

For the first time John de Witt showed some agitation.

“That we may possibly, under God’s help, avert the disaster that threatens us.”

“In what manner?”

“By endeavouring to obtain peace from the King of France.”

“Never!” cried Gaspard Fagel. “Never!”

John de Witt answered with suppressed passion—

“Orsoy, Rhynberg, Burick, and Wesel have fallen.”

The Secretary made no answer.

“I see no means of saving the United Provinces, M. Fagel.”

Now the Secretary looked at him defiantly and rose, resting one hand on the table between them.

“Well, Mynheer, the Republic hath before this been reduced to even greater extremities, and by God’s help been saved—if He saved us from the tyranny of Philip, surely He will preserve us from the tyranny of Louis.”

“God gave our ancestors the courage and resource to save themselves, M. Fagel.… I do not see these virtues among us now.”

“Would you despair of the vessel before she is on the rocks?” cried Gaspard Fagel stoutly. But in his heart he was frightened; never before had he known John de Witt speak despondently. “For my part,” he added, “I will do anything in my power to bring her safe to port.”

“Then you will help me?” John de Witt spoke eagerly.

“I do not know—I do not know.… What do you intend doing?”

M. Fagel took a hasty turn about the room, his hands clasped behind him under the blue dressing-gown.

“I intend to propose in the Assembly that envoys be at once sent to the King of France to request his terms, and to offer him everything so that we keep our final liberty.”

“Have you no trust in the Prince?” demanded the Secretary, trying to hearten himself into a confidence he could not feel.

“The Prince cannot do the impossible,” answered John de Witt dryly.

“Ah, you blame him for the passage of the Rhine,” cried M. Fagel on a note of challenge.

“No … he has been but a few days with the Army … he has not proved himself.” The Grand Pensionary spoke sternly. “We need other measures.”

“And you wish to open negotiations with the French?” repeated Gaspard Fagel.

As the head of the party opposing M. de Witt in the Councils of the State, Fagel was bound to vote for war; the Grand Pensionary had not expected to find him tractable, yet by alarming him he hoped to gain him eventually.

“You cannot refuse to help me,” he said now firmly; “these embassies will at least gain us time—and you are not surely so infatuated as to suppose the Prince of Orange can withstand the progress of the French?”

The dismayed Secretary had no answer ready.

John de Witt saw his advantage and pushed it further.

“The alliances with Spain, with Brandenburg, might save us yet—had we time to conclude them——”

M. Fagel interrupted—

“You cannot imagine that Louis would listen to any reasonable treaty—he fights for glory——”

“M. de Louvois is with him—he might deem it prudent not to push us to extremes.”

“It would be a humiliation!”

“Not so bitter a humiliation as to see Condé march through the Hague!” flashed M. de Witt.

“I cannot believe it could come to that.”

“Could you have believed a month ago that in nine days every fort on the Rhine would fall?”

“There is de Ruyter,” said the Secretary, clutching at straws.

“He cannot save the land forces.”

Gaspard Fagel was obstinate.

“There is the Prince.”

“M. Fagel, the Prince is opposed to Condé, Turenne, Luxumbourg, and an immense army strong with success——”

As he spoke M. Fagel’s terrified servant entered—

“Mynheer,” he addressed the Grand Pensionary, “a gentleman has just ridden up from the Binnenhof … there are … news, he says, from the Army——”

M. de Witt interrupted—

“May he come up?”

“In God’s name—yes,” cried M. Fagel.

The gentleman proved to be M. Van den Bosch; he explained his visit with the national calm.

A soldier had arrived at the Binnenhof with letters from the Army, among them one from His Highness for M. de Witt, and as he, still working there, knew of his master’s intention to visit M. Fagel he had brought the letter on at once. There was also a note from M. Beverningh. He apologised for his intrusion, bowed and withdrew.

“From the Prince!” cried M. Fagel, mopping his brow.

John de Witt paled as he gazed at the large, familiar handwriting.

A sickly hue of dawn was mingled with the glow of the candles, and in the cross lights the figure of the Grand Pensionary showed tall and sombre in his black velvet mantle, his worn face near as colourless as his crumpled white collar.

Gaspard Fagel went to the handsome oak buffet and, pouring wine into a tall green glass, drank fiercely.

M. de Witt stepped nearer to the candles and broke open the seals of the Prince’s letter. There were only a few lines.

The Grand Pensionary read them and handed them in silence to the Secretary.

“Given at my camp on the Yssel
June 12, 1672

“Sir,—I am in great distress, learning the approach of the enemy and having only insufficient forces to oppose to him.

“My authority is restricted and my movements hampered by the delegates, who forbid me to risk a battle.

“The militia and the peasants are in a state of terror at the advance of the French; the division available for the defence of the Yssel is only 22,000 men, so I must beg you to order without an hour’s delay that as many soldiers as possible be sent from Maestricht, Bois-le-duc, Breda, Bergen-op-Zoom, and the other strong places in Flanders.

“I think also that the few horse and foot which are still in Holland should be sent here.

“Otherwise I see no prospect of preventing the enemy crossing the Yssel.

“I entreat you to hold out a helping hand to one who is and ever will be, your affectionate friend,

“William Henry, Prince of Orange.”

M. Fagel laid the letter down in silence; he, too, was pale.

“God help us all!” he muttered.

The Grand Pensionary tore open M. Beverningh’s letter; he read it at once aloud—

“You will have heard of the disastrous passage of the Rhine—here the situation is desperate.

“I hope we have enough gunpowder—but the artillery is dismounted and almost useless; in a fortnight’s time we shall have barely seven gun-carriages.

“The Prince has displayed unheard-of activity in fortifying the river and disposing his men to the best advantage; the fatigue, the hardships of the camp, and his anxieties have had an ill effect on his health.

“I even fear for his life, though he says no word of discouragement. If reinforcements are not quickly sent he must be driven to some extremity, even to the abandonment of the Yssel.

“No general could have done more than His Highness, whom I regard every day with more affection, but you must see that with such an inadequate force there is nothing for us but a retreat, since to await the enemy here would be to deliver the Republic to her enemies by exposing her sole defenders to certain destruction.

“His Highness vehemently opposed the abandonment of the Yssel, but being unsupported by any save Count Hornes in his desire for an attack on the French, and hearing of the almost incredible fall of the Rhine fortresses, he has been brought to see that it would be wiser to fall back on Utrecht.

“We lost 1600 men in outposts on the Rhine—100,000 at least would be necessary to hold the Yssel, and we have 20,000, and those disposed in ‘echelons’ which cannot easily communicate with each other.

“I try to keep up the spirits of those about me. I pray you send me what good news you can that we may not be reduced to despair.”

John de Witt raised his prominent brown eyes, and fixed them with a steady and penetrating gaze on M. Fagel.

“What do you say now?”

The Secretary bit his pale lip.

“What can I say?”

He had nothing to oppose to the Grand Pensionary’s firm resolution; he was alarmed and unnerved.

John de Witt, absolutely master of himself, spoke again.

“If we are to have a country, Mynheer, the progress of the French must be stopped.”

M. Fagel tried to rally.

“Well, cannot we send more levies to His Highness?”

“Not, I fear, in time … from Beverningh’s letter I think they will abandon the line of the Yssel.”

M. Fagel poured himself out another glass of Chablis, and invited M. de Witt to join him. The Grand Pensionary took the glass mechanically and set it down untasted.

“Cannot we consult the Prince?” asked M. Fagel, who was afraid of offending William and wished to shift the responsibility.

John de Witt saw his motive.

“This is not a matter for the Captain General but for the States,” he answered with a stern dignity. “His Highness hath enough to do.”

Save by betraying himself as a servile and unpatriotic courtier of the Prince, M. Fagel could resist no more.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Since affairs have come to this extremity, I cannot refuse to help you, Mynheer.”

“You will see that His Highness’ party offer no opposition in the Assembly?”

“Yes, yes.” M. Fagel was still thinking of what the Prince would say.

“Whom do you propose to send?” he asked abruptly.

John de Witt was prepared at all points.

“M. de Groot and M. Van Ghent,” he answered at once.

“They are both obnoxious to His Highness,” protested M. Fagel.

“They are acceptable to the King of France—and M. de Groot, having been so long in Paris, hath a greater knowledge of French affairs than any man I know.”

The Secretary was in some agitation.

“Mynheer,” he said, “the Prince hath always disliked M. de Groot——”

John de Witt interrupted—

“For no more worthy reason than that he is a friend of mine and a staunch republican.”

M. Fagel answered with some dignity—

“I do not know His Highness’ reasons, but he has no love for M. de Groot, and as for M. Van Ghent——”

“M. Van Ghent had the misfortune to be His Highness’ tutor; he is, however, a man whom I entirely trust.”

M. Fagel was silenced, but by no means reassured. William would certainly never forgive peace proposals being sent to Louis without his wish, and carried, moreover, by the two men whom he most distrusted and disliked.

M. de Witt saw the Secretary’s hesitation, and, fearing to lose his support, made a concession.

“I will send with these M. Van Odyk and M. Van Eyck—they are both, I think, in His Highness’ favour.”

M. Fagel caught at this solution of the difficulty.

“On that understanding, Mynheer, I will second you with all my power in the Assembly—you are going there at once?”

“In a while—I have to write to the Prince and Beverningh.”

He picked up his hat and turned to take his leave.

Gaspard Fagel could not fail to admire the patient energy, the proud calm, the unshaken patriotism of the man who was working in the face of such odds; in the face of an invasion of overwhelming strength, domestic dissension, calumny, abuse and dislike from the people he was labouring for with all his noble faculties.

Something generous in the Secretary’s commonplace mind was touched.

“You are an example to all of us,” he said, and held out his hand.

John de Witt responded instantly—

“Mynheer Fagel, I do my duty, and there are many, thank God, who do the same.”

They clasped hands warmly.

“I shall see you in the Assembly?”

“Yes,” answered M. Fagel; “and I will make sure, Mynheer, that you are not opposed.”

John de Witt took up his letters. He had obtained what he came for; his force and sincerity, aided by the letters from the camp, had turned an opponent into an ally.

M. Fagel accompanied him to the door, then returning to the dining-room opened the shutters on the grey and stormy dawn.

The Assembly met at seven.

He glanced at the clock, and walked up and down with hasty steps, biting his forefinger. He knew that nothing would reconcile William to the offers of peace, and he knew that he would be blamed for ever consenting to aid John de Witt even passively.

He himself would have liked to throw defiance at the French, but the Grand Pensionary had overruled him.…

The French over the Rhine.…

He trembled for his country.…

All the same he must justify himself to the Prince, whose party he represented. He must write to the camp.

He paused thoughtfully by the table and stared absently at John de Witt’s untouched glass. He was recalling M. Bentinck’s secretary, Van Mander, ardent in the Orange cause, now spending his time in idleness in the deserted Palace; it occurred to him that here was the young man to send to the camp with a letter and explanations.

He blew out the candles and went upstairs to finish dressing.

“The French over the Rhine!” he kept saying to himself. “And what of de Ruyter?”

CHAPTER VIII
SOLEBAY

The night was fine but cold; the stars had a hard brilliance and flashed like facets of steel in the cloudless sky.

A man was thoughtfully pacing the deck of a great ship.

Now and again he looked shrewdly up at these stars. A strong but moderate wind was filling the sails and the ship was steering rapidly through the darkness towards the east coast of England.

There was a pleasant whistling in the cordage, and a pleasant, steady swish of the water to right and left as the bows cut through the darkened sea.

When the man turned his back to them he could see great lights dotted irregularly over the black surface of the ocean.

These were the lanterns hanging at the masts of the fleet, silently and closely following its leader.

When he turned again and came under the sparse rays of one of his own lamps, that was fastened a man’s height on the mast, he was shown to be a stout, short gentleman with a ruddy face and thick brown hair, very splendidly dressed in scarlet velvet trimmed with gold braid, and wearing a heavy sword in his fringed baldric and a handsome pistol in his belt.

His wide boots were turned over with crimson leather flaps, and on his right shoulder was a bunch of black ribbons.

He carried his red plumed hat under his arm and walked with a slightly swaggering gait.

Pausing for a moment under the lantern he drew out his watch.

Two o’clock.

As he was passing on again a sailor came noiselessly across the deck.

“Mynheer the Admiral, Mynheer Cornelius de Witt would like to speak to you.”

“Very well,” said de Ruyter, with a little nod, “very well.”

The man disappeared into the darkness of the ship.

Michael de Ruyter looked again at the stars, at the lights of his ships, and then went below humming a song in a hoarse, guttural voice.

He found Cornelius de Witt alone in his cabin, seated before a table scattered with papers.

A silver oil-lamp hung by a chain from the ceiling and showed the plain furnishings, which served as a background to the splendid figure of the Ruard.

His strong and handsome features were stern and frowning; the full under-lip and prominent chin, that gave his face its great likeness to his brother’s more delicate countenance, were set grimly in his effort to control the pain of the rheumatism that tortured him. Dressed with the magnificence that befitted the dignity of the States, whose sole representative he was with the Fleet, he wore a grey velvet suit embroidered in silver, and a cravat of Mechlin lace tied with a flame-coloured ribbon.

On the wall beside him hung his sword, that swung with the swaying of the ship; on a chest beneath were a couple of richly mounted pistols and a few books and maps.

Admiral de Ruyter paused inside the door, standing with his feet far apart after the fashion of a man accustomed to pitching seas.

“Ah!” said the Ruard, looking up. “Is the wind still favourable?”

“It is,” answered Michael de Ruyter. “And unless it falls we shall make the coast of England before morning.”

“You do not think they will escape this time?”

“By God’s help, no.”

The Admiral seated himself on the chest inside the door and looked down at the great crimson rosettes on his boots.

The lamp threw his shadow behind him, bringing into relief his deep-coloured, seamed, and blunt-featured face, that was rendered attractive by the composed, lofty expression and the bright, intelligent black eyes.

“I think we shall meet them at last,” he added, with an air of satisfaction.

A week ago Cornelius de Witt had obtained the consent of the States General to his earnest desire for an engagement, and since then the Dutch Fleet had been cruising in search of the combined fleets of France and England, whose junction at Portsmouth they had been unable to prevent.

A bold fishing-boat had brought them news that the enemy was at anchor on the east coast between Harwich and Yarmouth, and silently through the June night the ships of the United Provinces, crowding all canvas, bore forward to battle.

Cornelius de Witt put up his letters, one to his brother and one to his wife.

“I hope to add good news to them—to-morrow,” he said, smiling at de Ruyter.

The Admiral pulled at his moustache.

“I have to ask your permission before I attack, you know, Mynheer,” he said affectionately. “You have the authority—and the responsibility.”

“You know my opinion,” was the answer; “nothing but an engagement can save us—I would we were at work on it now—John agrees with me.”

“I would like to know how things go on land,” said de Ruyter.

A shade passed over the face of Cornelius de Witt.

“Almost I fear to know—with everything trusted to that boy.”

Michael de Ruyter nodded sombrely.

“At twenty-one!”

“His years are the least I have against him.”

“You do not trust him?”

“No.”

“Nor I.”

A stern silence fell.

The Ruard was the first to speak—

“We have our own affairs to think of … very much lies with us.”

The swinging sword made a soft sound against the smooth wall and the lamp swayed on its chain as the great vessel pitched.

“I mean to try a surprise,” said Michael de Ruyter.

“That is what I wanted to see you about—you think we can?”

“If the wind does not forsake us.”

“They will be unprepared.”

“’Tis likely.”

“Ay—they can scarce be expecting an attack.”

The Ruard’s brown eyes flashed.

“To-morrow is King Charles’ birthday,” answered the Admiral; “the English at least will be engaged in celebrating it … we have every chance.”

Cornelius de Witt clasped his hands on the table before him.

“If one life could secure the victory——”

Michael de Ruyter looked up.

“I should be very glad to die to-morrow could I see the English sails scatter as I saw them once scatter before us—at Chatham … and I think I shall … God have mercy on me if I boast.”

“We must have victory,” said Cornelius de Witt passionately; “there is no ‘if,’ de Ruyter, we must have victory to-morrow.”

“It is quite certain,” said de Ruyter simply, “that if we do not make a descent on England they will make a descent on the coast of Zeeland.”

He put his hands squarely on his knees and fixed his bright eyes on the representative of the States.

“How many sail do you make them?” asked the Ruard.

Michael de Ruyter checked them off on his stout fingers.

“The English, sixty-five ships of war, sixteen fire-ships, three or four thousand guns, and twenty-two or so thousand men … the French not more than sixty-seven sail, all included, not more than ten thousand men … that is the uttermost they can be if their entire force has combined.”

Cornelius de Witt was silent. The Fleet of the United Provinces was a hundred and thirty-three sail, including the galiots; they did not carry quite five thousand guns; the men, including five thousand marines, did not exceed twenty-five thousand.

The Ruard cast up these odds. The Admiral seemed to detect some anxiety in his thoughtful face.

“We are in God’s hands, Mynheer de Witt, and I cannot think it is His will to forsake us utterly.”

Cornelius de Witt made a movement as if to get on his feet. But he could not rise for his crippled limbs, and the momentary effort brought the drops of anguish to his forehead.

“You battle with a sharper foe than the English,” said Admiral de Ruyter, with a little frown of sympathy. “Madame de Witt would say you should be in bed.”

The Ruard leant forward, supporting himself on the table.

“I am not so ill,” he answered, forcing a smile to his pale lips, “that I cannot go on deck to-morrow——”

“Nay, you cannot walk.”

“Well, I can be carried——”

“A deputy can take your orders——”

“The Representative of the States General cannot remain in his cabin when the Fleet is in action,” replied Cornelius de Witt proudly. “I will go on deck at daybreak.”

Michael de Ruyter said no more. Each in silence, and after his own fashion, had dedicated his life to his country.

The light of the swinging lamp shone in the bravery of velvets, gold buttons and braid, the trappings of swords and pistols, and on the calm, resolute faces of the two men who were being borne swiftly on to battle.

De Ruyter rose and opened the porthole.

The expanse of water, almost on a level with his eye, was beginning to glimmer with a greyish tinge.

As the ship dipped to her side the heavy spray splashed in on to the cabin floor.

De Ruyter shut it out.

“The dawn,” he said.

He shook hands with Cornelius. They looked into each other’s eyes, and without a word from either de Ruyter went up on the deck.

The sea was changing to a silver colour beneath the clear sky of a June dawn, the stars were faintly sparkling through a veil of fast rising mist, the colour of lilac flowers, that lay over the horizon.

Before the flagship lay the stretch of rippling waters and the indefinite, distant line of land; behind her, and to right and left, was the Fleet of the United Provinces, crowding all sail under a pressure of wind and blocking the sky with the straining canvas, the dark masts, and the flags bearing the lions of the Republic.

At many of the bulkheads the lamps still burnt with a pale and useless glare; but as the day strengthened these were extinguished silently like the last stars in the brightening heavens.

The Seven Provinces continued to lead. At four o’clock she sighted the enemy, lying at anchor off the coast of England.

By the maps it appeared that they were nearing Solebay, midway between Yarmouth and Harwich.

De Ruyter sent off boats to summon the principal officers of the Fleet on board his ship, and went himself to tell Cornelius de Witt that the enemy was in view.

Thereupon the Ruard was carried on deck in a chair bearing the arms of the Republic, and placed by the mast in the position of honour and danger.

Out of the hundred men appointed by the States General to attend him, twelve halberdiers were selected now to form a guard.

Armed on back and breast, they took their places about his chair, and the early sun glittered in their steel appointments.

The Ruard was bareheaded; his bandaged legs rested on a velvet footstool; his sword lay across his knee, and his pistols were in his belt.

In his right hand he held a Bible with gold clasps.

The strong, fresh wind blew his hair across his brow and fluttered the scarlet ribbon that fastened his cravat.

Shielding his eyes with his hand from the glare of sun and water, he fixed his narrowed gaze on the barely visible line of the enemy.

De Ruyter was pacing to and fro with his straddling gait, his hands clasped behind him, and his keen eyes following the movements of the bare-footed sailors who were clearing the decks.

At five o’clock, when the water, under the slackening wind, had subsided to faint ripples that the sun, freed from the obscuring mist, gilded with dazzling light, the captains and principal officers of the Fleet came aboard The Seven Provinces.

Among them were many noble volunteers of the finest families of the kingdom, who had placed their services and their fortunes at the disposal of the country.

Michael de Ruyter, the son of the Zeeland brewer’s man, received them with simple courtesy.

They shook hands with him, and then with the Ruard, near whose chair he stood.

Every detail of the beautiful ship, and of the magnificently dressed men who stood gathered about her mast, shining gold and silver, velvets, satin, sword-hilts and pistols, eager faces, and bare yellow or brown heads (for they were all uncovered out of respect to Mynheer Cornelius de Witt), was sparkling visibly in the gay sunshine.

Admiral de Ruyter set his feet far apart, and again clasped his gauntleted hands behind him.

“Gentlemen of my fleet,” he said, and his quick eyes roved along the line of faces, “we are in the presence of the enemy. It is my intention to give battle. I feel that your courage and your devotion are equal to the difficulty and importance of your task.

“We have to face greater numbers, but on our side is justice, and with God’s help we shall not fail.

“The safety of the Country, the liberty of the United Provinces, the fortunes and the lives of their inhabitants depend upon this battle, and only your valour can secure the Republic against the unjust violence of the two kings who attack her.”

His pointed moustache seemed to bristle, and there was a fierce, steel-like gleam in his narrowed eyes.

“Well,” he added, with a little nod, “get to your work … and ask the Lord God, in His mercy, to help us … if such be His will.”

Cornelius de Witt lifted his noble face.

“What can I add?—your own good courage will direct you—God have you in His keeping, gentlemen.”

They bent their heads.

Captain Engel de Ruyter spoke—

“If the enemy were twice as strong, we should have faith, Mynheer, in the justice of our cause, since we fight for liberty and they for glory.”

The Ruard and the Admiral shook hands with them all a second time, and they returned to their ships; silent and seemingly unmoved, as was the habit of their nation.

With all speed possible the Fleet of the United Provinces was beating to windwards, but the strong breeze had dropped, and de Ruyter no longer hoped for a surprise.

The enemy had already seen them, and were hastily arranging themselves for battle. So utterly unprepared were they that in the confusion many of the English ships had to cut their cables to place themselves in line.

De Ruyter, on the forecastle, saw this, and his lips stiffened. The superiority of the enemy sent a thrill of pleasurable excitement through his veins.

He was a just and honourable man, well fitted to serve under John de Witt, and all his indomitable energies were roused by the wanton aggression of the King of England. Had he not commenced attack like a pirate by attempting to capture the India fleet before war was declared, and, in violation of the treaty between England and the United Provinces, by seizing all the Dutch merchant-ships in English ports?

John de Witt had disdained to revenge himself for this perfidy, as he had disdained to answer Charles’ frivolous pretexts for war, and every English vessel had gone free according to the agreement the United Provinces were too proud to break.

It was an example of the different spirit animating the two Governments. The Dutch were upheld by every noble feeling patriotism may call forth; they fought for the finest of motives, for the most glorious of ends: the English, ashamed of their leaders, hating the alliance with the French, whose cats’-paws they suspected themselves to be, sullen at the unworthy part they felt themselves to be filling, had no motive to acquit themselves well save mere desire for reprisals on a country that had already once beaten them off the sea.

Michael de Ruyter was alive to this difference of spirit in the two forces about to meet.

Calling his men on to the quarter-deck, he pressed their advantage, warmly exhorting every one to do his best in a noble cause, and assuring them, out of the depth of his own strong, simple faith, of God’s help in their utmost endeavours.

The men, devoted to their Admiral and the finest seamen in the world, responded with a cheerful enthusiasm that was the outward expression of undaunted purpose and courage.

Each went to his place; the swivel guns on the top of the forecastle and quarter-deck bulwarks were swung to front the enemy; the eager, half-nude gunners knelt before the long guns on the main and quarter-decks and below the smooth muzzles pointed from the portholes.

The standard of the Republic floated stiffly out from the mainmast of The Seven Provinces, vivid in the sunshine.

Cornelius de Witt raised his eyes to it and murmured a prayer.

The hammocks were lashed to the nettings, and behind them the marines, with their muskets in their hands, took up their position.

By now the wanton English breeze had changed again and a high sea was running. De Ruyter gave the order to reef in topsails.

They were almost within range of the Allied Fleet, who had now drawn themselves up into line of battle, divided into three squadrons: two English, the first of the Red, commanded by the Lord High Admiral of England, James of York, the King’s brother; the second, called the Blue, by Vice-Admiral the Earl of Sandwich.

The third squadron, the White, comprised the French ships under the Count D’Estrées, Vice-Admiral of France; his second in command, Lieutenant Admiral Duquesne.

De Ruyter also arranged his forces into three; Lieutenant Admiral Banckert advanced towards the French ships on the left, and Lieutenant Admiral Van Ghent was opposed to the Earl of Sandwich on the right wing.

De Ruyter, seconded by Lieutenant Admiral Van Nes, took the central position facing the Duke of York’s division, commanded by James himself on his flagship The Royal Prince.

The Dutch Fleet shortened sail; the useless canvas was furled. De Ruyter gave the signal for battle, and the colours of the United Provinces ran up on every yardarm. From the Duke’s flagship floated the royal red standard of England, and from the great vessel that had D’Estrées on board the Bourbon blue with the yet unconquered lilies semé on the azure ground.

Michael de Ruyter walked up to his pilot Zegen.

It was then nearly eight o’clock of a beautiful June day; not a cloud visible, and the deep green water curling into foam about the bows of the advancing vessels.

Above the cordage flew circling sea-birds, the sunlight on their wings and breasts.

De Ruyter pointed out The Royal Prince to the pilot.

“Zegen,” he said in his quiet voice, “that is our man.”

The pilot lifted his cap.

“Admiral,” he said calmly, “you shall have him.”

And he steered The Seven Provinces straight for the Duke of York’s flagship.

There was a moment’s pause, of heightened calm it seemed, during which was no sound save the harsh scream of a seagull and the splash of the waves curling over one another.

Then the guns leapt into a roar.

A furious broadside came from the 18-pounders of The Seven Provinces; the shots tore the water into foam and buried themselves in the side of The Royal Prince, who returned an instant cannonade.

A thick smoke, a heavy dun in colour, at once wrapped both vessels; to the right rang a second roar as Van Ghent engaged Lord Sandwich, and to the left the answering boom of the French cannon.

The two flagships were now close-hauled, and the Dutch opened a hot fire of musketry from behind their hammocks. Theirs being the higher vessel, they were able to inflict on the English a galling volley of small shot that raked their exposed decks.

Aware of this disadvantage, The Royal Prince tried to get out of her opponent’s reach, but the light wind would not serve her, and de Ruyter brought about a collision, driving the port bow of The Seven Provinces into the enemy’s starboard side.

The English marines on the poop commenced a steady fire of musketry, but the Dutch 36-pounders tore a hole in their enemy’s close-pressed side and the deck guns crippled her masts.

The smoke was already so thick that the sky was entirely obscured; the stifling vapour was rent across by the flashes of fire from the guns and the fresh spurts of white smoke that followed each shot.

The roar of the great cannon below was incessant; splinters flew from each ship, and the planks of the Dutch vessel became so heated with her own cannonade that seamen had to stand ready with buckets of water to extinguish the flames.

As the enemy was so close in their embrace the Dutch from the nettings kept up a continuous fire that picked off numbers of the English crew, while the swivel guns on the forecastle heavily raked the enemy’s masts and rigging.

Michael de Ruyter, walking up and down the upper deck giving his orders, stopped beside the chair of Cornelius de Witt.

The air was foul with the smell of powder, and they could hardly hear each other for the thunder of the guns.

“How long will she hold out, Admiral?” asked the Ruard.

“I think she will be badly beaten in a very little while,” answered de Ruyter, with his thumbs in his embroidered sash.

The musketry fire was playing round Cornelius de Witt, but he did not even seem to notice it. A ball had buried itself in the deck a few inches from the stool where his bandaged feet rested; two of his guards had already fallen, been carried to the rails by the silent survivors and flung overboard.

Blood began to appear everywhere; on the smooth planks, on the gay clothes of the officers, on the naked, glistening bodies of the gunners.

Several of the marines lay heavily over useless muskets in the nettings, their bodies jerking helplessly with the swaying of the ship. On the lower deck others remained where they had fallen, mostly on their faces, with the red stain spreading underneath them.

A gentle breeze rose and drove off The Royal Prince after nearly an hour of furious firing.

The English ship had suffered severely; her spars had gone; her sides were driven in, her foremast and fore-topmast had been shot away, and many of her guns were dismounted.

De Ruyter had lost only his mizzen-topmast and one of the lower yards, and of his crew comparatively few; but the dead could be seen piled high on the English ship.

Encouraged by the sight of the enemy, the Dutch turned on her another fierce cannonade that swept off her mizzen-mast and battered her hulls.

This time the English guns did not answer, and a low murmur of triumph went up from The Seven Provinces.

Her cannon impeded by her own falling spars, half the gunners down—dead and dying entangled in the rigging that lay along the deck, The Royal Prince was utterly unmanageable; her pilot could do nothing with her, she lay helpless, a tattered shape looming through the heavy smoke.

Her mainmast still stood, and there the red standard of England, riddled with shot, floated above the battle.

It was now nine o’clock. De Ruyter gave orders for another broadside.

It was replied to by a feeble volley from the English ship, now pitching uselessly; the mainmast swayed, then crashed down, dragging the cordage and remaining canvas with it. Smoke began to belch through her portholes, and to complete her distress one of the 12-pounders blew up, killing several of the crew and firing the side.

“She is finished,” said de Ruyter, standing behind his pilot; and as the Royal Standard fell the hoarse shouts of victory rose from the decks of The Seven Provinces.

The Royal Prince tried now to withdraw, but was prevented by the other vessels of de Ruyter’s squadron; they closed round her and sent out fire-ships to complete her destruction.

The sea was scattered with wreckage, and stained with trails of blood and flecks of foam; the curtain of smoke concealed the rest of the battle, but the continuous sound of the guns and the splashes of flame in the darkness testified to its fierceness.

Michael de Ruyter, on the forecastle, saw a boat put out from The Royal Prince and struggle through the dipping bullets that lashed the water into spray; it lay-to at one of the portholes, and a man in a blue coat stepped out and took his place in the stern sheet.

He carried the standard that had just been disentangled from the bloody deck.

“It is the Duke of York,” said Admiral de Ruyter, narrowing his keen eyes. “Steer away from The Royal Prince, Zegen, for they have abandoned the flagship!”

The little Dutch galiots ran out, crowding all canvas, and trying to reach the cock-boat in which the Lord High Admiral of England was conveying his flag across the firing line.

They could see the English sailors straining at the oars, and the Prince himself ducking under the bullets, one of which flattened itself against the bows of his boat.

The utter calm delayed the fire-ships; the English boat escaped into the smoke, and about half-past nine, with a blare of trumpets, the English flag was rehoisted aboard The Saint Michael.

The Royal Prince, on fire in three places, an abandoned and drifting wreck, collided with one of her own galiots, and instant flames involved them both in a common doom. Such as remained of her crew threw themselves into the sea, clinging desperately to broken spars and planks, while the pale fire leapt, hissing, to the height of her fallen mast, and stained the sombre smoke with sparks and flying fragments as gun after gun, and cask after cask of gunpowder, exploded at the touch of the flames.

The Seven Provinces steered off from the floating mischief, and silencing with a sweep of her guns the circle of English fire-ships that surrounded her, went for The Saint Michael.

An officer came on board from Captain Engel de Ruyter’s ship to say that the captain was disabled by a dangerous wound, and the vessel sinking with six holes in her side; being beset with the enemy’s fire-ships.

“Keep the flag flying,” said de Ruyter, and turned his course to his son’s assistance.

Van Nes having, after a fierce fight, lost one of his ships, and being forced to retreat with his hull cut to pieces and nothing standing but the mainmast and the shattered remains of the bowsprit, had patched his vessel together, and returning to the fight seconded de Ruyter in an attack on The Royal Catherine, a ship of eighty guns that was menacing Engel de Ruyter. A Dutch fire-ship was dispatched and a broadside fired full into the hulls of The Royal Catherine, whose jib-boom and wheel were at the same time shot away by a discharge from The Seven Provinces.

Her deck guns were now abandoned, a fierce fusillade from the starboard guns was directed into the bows of the English vessel, and the two ships crashed together, starboard to starboard.

The Dutch attempted to board, and a desperate hand-to-hand fight between the two decks ensued; Van Nes leading his men with cutlass and pistol, and Captain John Chicheley, of The Royal Catherine, fiercely urging his crew forward.

The Seven Provinces, holding off a little, sent a volley into the English ship that blew the bottom out of her and ended the struggle.

Engel de Ruyter’s rescued ship withdrew from the firing line for repairs, and The Royal Catherine, fast sinking, surrendered to Van Nes, who received her crew as prisoners and took possession.

De Ruyter again turned his attention to The Saint Michael, she the while keeping up a murderous cannonade on the frigates opposed by the Dutch.

The sharp, short rattle of musketry was heard above the steady roar of the great guns, and little threads of flame and puffs of white smoke sprang out and vanished against the curtain of yellow fog as the marines on board The Seven Provinces, under cover of the nets, picked off the sailors in the rigging of The Saint Michael.

Two other high Dutch vessels, looming up out of the noise and darkness of battle, silenced the starboard guns of the English flagship with a close-range volley; her poop was swept bare with a cannonade from de Ruyter, and her disabled rigging and rent canvas swayed through the smoke that belched on her from all sides.

For the second time the English standard fell.

De Ruyter strove to press his advantage, and sent out two frigates to sink or burn The Saint Michael; but her pilot and captain brilliantly managed the wounded vessel, and, wreck as she was, steered her out of the line of battle.

Again the Duke of York was forced to abandon his ship; again he was rowed through the wreckage, the seething, stained sea, and the ragged flag was hoisted on The London.

De Ruyter, having vanquished those ships immediately in duel with him, turned his attention to the other parts of the battle.

The French Fleet, beaten in a first engagement, and wishing to leave the brunt of the battle to their allies, had withdrawn towards the south, hotly pursued by Van Banckert, whose distant guns could be heard in the lulls of the nearer firing.

Van Ghent had begun the fight on the left wing with a fury that had brought the Squadron of the Blue to retreat in confusion and terror; but as de Ruyter was fighting his way through a circle of fire-ships to second him, a young lieutenant came up in a little galiot and announced to Cornelius de Witt that Admiral Van Ghent was dead. In the midst of his victorious onset he had been killed by a cannon-ball.

A captain of marines was with the lieutenant; he had his arm in a sling and a mark of blood across his face.

“Conceal Van Ghent’s death,” said the Ruard. “Keep his flag flying and return to the fight—the day goes well for us.”

A ball had carried away one arm of his chair; three more of his guards had fallen, and the deck was smeared with blood and burnt with powder to his very feet; behind him, leaning against the mast, a dying boy sat staring at a fingerless hand he held across his up-drawn knees.

The sea was rising and the ship began to toss, pitching the dead to and fro on the slippery decks. De Ruyter stood beside the Ruard’s chair, his feet far apart, and gave directions in a firm voice.

The captain, advancing for instructions, had his arm shattered by a shot that splintered the mast; he went below to the dark cabin where the surgeon was at work, and returned to take his orders with an empty sleeve pinned across his breast.

The London opened an obstinate fire, and de Ruyter answered, leaving the left wing to manage the Squadron of the Blue.

They, not receiving the expected signal from Van Ghent’s ship, had given the English time to recover from the first shock of the onslaught; the Earl of Sandwich, on board The Royal James, his flagship, rallied his force and advanced in order of battle.

It was now past midday, and though the advantage had been so far with the Dutch the English gave no signs of yielding.

De Ruyter signalled to Vice-Admiral Sweers to take over the command of the left division, and make a decisive attack on the Blue.

But there was one Dutchman who waited for no signal; Captain Van Brakel of The City of Groningen, the hero of the victory of Chatham. Ardently desirous further to distinguish himself, he conceived the boldly audacious scheme of capturing or destroying The Royal James himself.

Defying all discipline, he left, without orders, de Ruyter’s squadron, to which he belonged, and advanced to The Royal James across the black pool of waters the battle enclosed. The exploit was daring to recklessness, for the English ship carried 102 guns and 900 men, while his little vessel was only armed with 70 guns and 300 men.

An angry broadside from the great ship met her rash foe; Captain Van Brakel approached without replying.

The Royal James, alarmed at this manœuvre, spread her topsails and tried to sheer off; but Van Brakel was too quick. He hauled his wind, drew up alongside the English, threw out his grappling irons and seized her, while his quarter-deck guns blew away her cordage and rigging.

Despite The Royal James’ desperate efforts the two ships remained locked together. There was a rush of Dutch to the sides, an answering charge on the part of the English, and the crews mingled in a fierce hand-to-hand fight with muskets, pistols, swords, and even sticks and fragments of iron.

Van Brakel, regardless of a broken collar-bone and a cut on his forehead that blinded him, led his men himself.

The sheer Anglo-Saxon genius for fighting rose in the English; let their cause be good or bad they could not have fought more fiercely.

The Earl of Sandwich, with a broken sword in his hand, and panting a little by reason of his stoutness, ran up with his officers.

“Don’t let the damned Dutchmen board!” he shouted, and a yell of fury rose to answer him.

The Netherlanders, silent but equally in earnest, pressed over the bodies of their comrades and closed with the English on the deck of their own ship, clinging to the rails, the grappling irons, even to the guns, some of which many succeeded in ramming under the very eyes of the gunners.

Meanwhile their own cannon kept up a steady fire; the Dutch gunners remaining at their places in face of a cruel discharge from the deck guns of The Royal James.

Man after man fell as he was putting the match to the powder and lay silently gasping his life out; but there was never lack of another to take his place. The dwindling crew moved forward as the gaps occurred, and The City of Groningen’s guns were never silent.

The Royal James was suffering severely; her masts were tottering, her sails hanging in ribbons. All Lord Sandwich’s efforts were directed to a frantic attempt to disengage her; but still the little Dutch vessel clung to her side, still the guns poured their fire into her with unabated vigour.

At half-past one, after the duel had lasted an hour and a half, the English masts went overboard on the disengaged side, dragging the Admiral’s flag into the sea. The guns on the forecastle and quarter-deck were put out of action by the fallen canvas, the mizzen-topsail going over the portholes and becoming involved with the Dutch grappling irons.

The City of Groningen had done enough; battered, half her crew dead, and all her officers wounded, she changed her tactics and withdrew, cutting her chains, and signalled up her fire-ships.

The Royal James was in no condition to resist another onslaught; not a mast standing, her jib-boom and wheel shot away, her decks piled with dead and wreckage, many of her guns silenced, she lay a huge, useless hulk.